


Her Wish

by Rosage



Category: Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Femslash, Ficlet Collection, Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-08 04:42:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 51
Words: 31,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4291245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosage/pseuds/Rosage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Overcoming reservations to love, and more.  A collection cross-posted from Femslashficlets, a Dreamwidth community that gives weekly prompts for femslash fics of 100-1000 words.  Ratings between G and light PG-13.</p><p>Newest:<br/>A Dream Itself, Faye/Silque: Faye admits her childhood dream.<br/>I in Your Sweet Thoughts, Faye/Silque: Helping a child makes Faye worry about what she is to Silque.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breathe (Kris/Katarina)

**Author's Note:**

> As the summary says, this is an archive of short femslash fics written for a Dreamwidth challenge. Some of them are for one-word weekly prompts while others are for annual prompt tables. I realize it's a little unwieldy to navigate at this point, so the ficlets are organized by game and ship and labeled in the title. Note that most of them are stand-alone, but the Palla/Minerva, Almedha/Titania, and Faye/Silque collections especially are meant to be read in order.
> 
> I hope you find something you enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the theme 'Out.'

Katarina turns in a circle as she scans her surroundings, creating a mental map. No foliage rustles in the forest to one side of her, but she still considers which of the nearby rocks would offer cover if the trees hid an ambush. Though it’s been a fortnight since the army got into a skirmish, she can’t let her guard down, not if she’s to make amends to Prince Marth and protect Kris and the others.

She clutches her tome to her chest and rotates again. Still there is no movement. She examines a grassless patch of ground to see if any of the dirt is muddy enough to cause slipping (it’s not) and identifies the plants at the forest’s edge. Biting back a sigh, she admits she must return to camp. Despite not being sent to scout, she volunteered in order to escape everyone’s eyes. She can always feel them boring into her, and while she deserves it, it still seems as if they can see every one of her mistakes, making her prepare on impulse for a blow. Even out here, where she’s alone, being in the open makes her feel exposed. She holds her breath and tightens her grip on the tome.

A branch snaps, and she whirls. Blonde hair—Kleine—no, that’s impossible. Thankfully, when she spies orange armor she realizes it’s Kris. Her grip on the tome relaxes, then clenches, then relaxes again. She lowers it.

“Kris. What are you doing away from Prince Marth’s side? Has something happened?”

“No, the camp’s almost too quiet. Well, other than Cecille, but that’s only dangerous for our enemies.” Kris smiles, and Katarina mirrors it even as her heart begins to race. _Enemies_ —someone else might have meant it as a jab, a threat, but never Kris. If only Katarina’s body would believe that.

“Did you need me for something, then?” Katarina asks.

“I just wanted to check on you. You didn’t eat with us, so I got worried.”

By now Kris has reached Katarina and is standing in front of her, tilting her chin down the inch it takes for their eyes to meet. Katarina returns the gaze easily; she had to practice making eye contact before infiltrating the group so as not to appear shifty, and that training hasn’t been erased. Katarina thinks she should feel guilty for burdening Kris, but she’s only pleased that Kris noticed her absence and came to find her, enough so to make her want to skip meals more often.

To her embarrassment, her stomach growls in protest at that thought. Growing up hungry hasn’t desensitized her to hunger. Before she can speak, Kris reaches into a pouch and hands over a strip of dried meat. “Here, I asked Rody for extra. And don’t worry, I didn’t have a hand in making it.”

Katarina accepts it, torn between her hunger and wanting to hold onto something as precious as a gift from Kris. Ever so briefly Kris holds her hand before dropping it, sending heat down to Katarina’s wrist in a similar fashion to when she uses magic. Suddenly eye contact is no longer easy, so she looks around again at the terrain. The wide open space still makes her short of breath. She watches a lizard crawl up a rock and wonders if she’d fit in the space behind it.

A hand on her arm makes her jump. She turns back to Kris, amazed that she could forget she’s still there (amazed that she _is_ ). “Are you all right?” Kris asks.

Katarina bites her tongue, looking down at the meat she’s now squeezing. Nodding, she breathes out before taking a bite, and then another, and then she breathes again.


	2. Stringless Puppet (Kris/Katarina)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for allusions to abuse.
> 
> For the "Poems by Sappho" prompt table, from the following poem:
> 
> _...for those_   
>  _I treat well are the ones who most of all_   
>  _...harm me_

They’ve barely made it out of the barracks when Kris stops, rifling through her pouch. At Katarina’s question she scratches her head, shaking off a leaf that’s fallen on it. “I thought I packed my sword polish.”  
  
“I’ll run back and get it,” Katarina says quickly. She’s taken to packing anything she thinks Kris will need, but it’s rare for Kris to forget to tend to her weapon. Then again, they’re out earlier than usual, as Kris woke Katarina from a nightmare and offered to take her out for fresh air. Katarina wouldn’t agree until Kris decided to make a training expedition of it.  
  
Kris protests that they can both go, but Katarina’s already swiveled, calling over her shoulder for Kris to start training. The wind chills her as she breaks into a run, eyes trained to navigate in the dark. She hates that she needs the space away from Kris, but sharing a cot was already a major step. She’d curled up in a ball, keeping her breaths quiet on instinct, ultimately failing to keep out of Kris’s arms. As warm as they were, it left her waiting for a sting.  
  
After retrieving the bottle she slows, making a game of avoiding stepping on any twigs and cringing at each snap. The sight of Kris training makes Katarina stop and hover, admiring her form and muscles even as the sight of the dancing blade gives her goose bumps. She trusts Kris, doesn’t she? She thinks so, but the trust Kris extends to her is more unconditional than this, more complete despite everything Katarina’s done.  
  
When she’s noticed, Katarina holds the polish out like an offering, her head bowed with formalities around its inner edge. The casual way Kris takes the bottle and tosses it up in the air makes Katarina bite her lip. Juggling is a skill the seventh platoon has been practicing—whether something Rody picked up to entertain his sisters, or Cecille thought of while tossing javelins, Katarina’s not sure—and the group now throws and catches individual items as a matter of habit. Katarina never picked it up, holding tight to everything she owns and unsure if juggling books or daggers is a good idea, besides.  
  
“Are you all right?” Kris asks. Without raising her head Katarina looks at her, realizing that she’s already rested a foot on a rock and started polishing her blade.  
  
“Yes. Is there anything else I can get for you?”  
  
“No, thank you. Doesn’t hunching like that make your neck hurt?”  
  
Hesitating, Katarina lifts it straight, lowering her eyes. A gloved hand at her chin causes her to lift them again, though it applies no pressure. Kris drops it. “Are you sure nothing’s wrong? You’ve gone… someplace else, again.”  
  
“Someplace else?”  
  
“Yes.” Kris frowns in the way she does when she’s pondering her duties. “I’m not sure what happens. Your eyes just go blank. As long as you’re all right, it’s okay, but…”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Katarina blurts. “I’m trying to be here.”  
  
Kris’s frown eases, her hand finding its way to Katarina’s shoulder. “I know. Take all the time you need.”  
  
Katarina closes her eyes and lets the hand linger, firm yet gentle, to prove to herself that it won’t squeeze.


	3. Forget-me-not (Minerva/Palla)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Poems by Sappho" prompt table, from the following poem:
> 
> _but me you have forgotten_

Being a decorated knight has its drawbacks. The pouches strapped to Palla’s saddle hold only basic supplies and messages, which one of her rank would be expected to order a subordinate to deliver. However, she’s scarcely heard from Minerva of late. Her own duties tie her to the capital, and though Minerva once commanded the skies, she chooses not to venture far from the convent unless necessary. Though she knows it’s not a decision Minerva would make lightly, Palla can’t help but worry, especially as Minerva’s letters have become infrequent. Perhaps Minerva is fine without her—that should soothe her, even if it doesn’t—but she needs to see it with her own eyes to be sure.  
  
When Palla touches down, Maria is weeding the garden and Minerva is nowhere to be seen. Though Minerva is another matter, Palla can’t get used to seeing Maria on her knees, wrist-deep in dirt. Her hair has grown past her shoulders, her old band replaced with a short ponytail, and a smock keeps the front of her dress clean. Her lips, dry and puffy from being chewed, turn up at Palla’s approach.  
  
Palla joins her on her knees, letting Maria throw her arms around her shoulders. It’s not a typical greeting from a princess to a knight, but Maria deserves every bit of warmth and normality she can get. More indulgently, Palla misses having little sisters to welcome her at the door or stables after a day’s work. She doesn’t dare think of Maria as hers, but as a substitute, she’s ever a delight.  
  
No doubt eager to put the work aside for the moment, she shows Palla each vegetable, telling her which ones are to be given away and which will be pickled for the convent’s winter store. Beyond the healing herbs lies a single patch of flowers, tiny blue clusters among the green. Carefully Palla pinches a stem just under its blossom, and Maria picks a few to weave into Palla’s hair.  
  
“Blue suits you,” she says when she’s done, clasping her hands. “We actually grow these flowers to place upon graves, but I think limiting such pretty blossoms to that is horribly depressing, don’t you?”  
  
If Maria were Est, Palla might have advocated the beauty of keeping such a thing to honor the dead. Habit wins, even if the only crown Maria wears is one of flowers, and Palla murmurs assent.  
  
It’s as long as she can contain herself before asking after Minerva. As soon as she does, Maria’s lower lip disappears between her teeth. Though Maria describes only what her sister has been busy with, Palla doesn’t forget the reaction, gently plucking away the stems that Maria’s begun twisting in her hands.  
  
Minerva returns with a cart of firewood, her axe swung carelessly over her shoulder. Her shirt and trousers are tan cotton, scratched up from her trip into the woods, and she’s cut the inch of hair that Maria has grown. Nothing about her carries the appearance of a princess, yet she could never be accused of being an average civilian, her straight back and the scars across her nose and jaw at least implying a war veteran.  
  
They rise to meet her, and Minerva asks Maria to go inside and prepare a beverage for Palla. She watches her sister scurry inside as she rests the axe in the dirt and leans on its handle. Palla studies the cut of her profile, wanting to smooth a thumb over the sharp and crooked edges but instead raising her fingers to her own neck. The movement catches Minerva’s eye, which circles Palla’s hair. “I see Maria has made you into her newest handiwork.”  
  
Having forgotten about the flowers, Palla fingers them. “She’s a bright-spirited girl.”  
  
“That she is.” Minerva’s smile is fond, but thin. “I cannot say the same for her elder sister.”  
  
Palla studies her, measuring the wear of her compared to the last time they met. Minerva’s been torn up by Macedon’s enemies, Macedon herself, and her own family alike; it takes effort to see past her trained posture and scars to read her heart on any given day.  
  
“No, I cannot either,” Palla says carefully. “Her elder sister is not a girl, but a woman, one with an endlessly determined spirit.”  
  
“Your praise humbles me. Well, shall we go inside and rest a spell? Maria has learned to brew a wonderful cup of tea.”  
  
The redirection does not faze Palla, who knows that many topics will be off-limits once Maria is in earshot. She begins to amble toward her waiting pegasus. “I will once I retrieve my bags. How has it been here, without your vassals?”  
  
“It’s been…peaceful. I cannot expect the same support as my position once required now that I’ve given it up, but those at the convent have offered more than I can ask.”  
  
It’s the same practical graciousness that Palla has always admired in her, but it makes her frown now, to see the crease in Minerva’s brow with her usual headband absent. “You’ve been taking everything upon yourself, haven’t you?”  
  
“Mustn’t we all? I’m sure you’ve been bearing everything within your power, as well.” Minerva’s voice has tensed, and it’s tempting to match it, but Palla softens her tone instead.  
  
“Have you forgotten whose burdens I’m devoted to bearing? I may no longer fly at your side, but whatever your position, I am sworn to support you. You can trust in me.”  
  
Having been walking alongside her, Minerva halts. The crease does not smooth, but Minerva’s shoulders lower just slightly as she murmurs her thanks. It’s enough. Palla can press no further, only trust that Minerva will call for her when she is ready—though she’s already considering plans for her next delivery to the convent, just in case.


	4. Her Wish (Minerva/Palla)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Poems by Sappho" prompt table, from the following poem:
> 
>  _Deathless Aphrodite of the spangled mind..._  
>  (Full poem [here](http://fsf-mod.dreamwidth.org/272.html))

Minerva leans her axe against the outer corner of the fence, the bloodied blade pointing away from the convent. A fresh stump where a tree was surrendered to the fire heap serves as a suitable stool, letting her bend her aching knees and set her head between them. Flying from mountain to mountain over a battlefield never made her this dizzy. Perhaps it’s the immediacy. Each corpse had been a dot beneath the clouds, a web of which the connections were beyond her. Three brigands now lay beneath the tree where Maria once taught a pair of twins to climb, marked with rocks Minerva plans to explain to no one, and it presses upon her that she could not carve their names.  
  
A winged shadow passes over her. When Palla lands and dismounts, Minerva only lifts her head, afraid that by standing she’ll immediately give away her injuries. She’s sure Palla makes the connection herself when she sees the axe, though she drops easily to one knee before Minerva.  
  
“Forgive me for not arriving sooner,” Palla says, her chin lowered. Minerva thinks of lifting it but doesn’t.  
  
“Think nothing of it. I took care of matters myself.”  
  
Questions seem to swim in Palla’s eyes when she looks up, though she asks after the important thing first, the safety of those in the convent. Minerva confirms they are sequestered inside, the children in bed with a fever and the clerics looking after them. It is a hidden blessing, as Maria would have insisted upon coming with her.  
  
“She’ll give you an earful if we don’t see to those wounds,” Palla says.  
  
“The healers have their hands full already. Besides, they’re only scrapes.” Minerva waves an arm, taking care to avoid grimacing. Palla purses her lips.  
  
“The sole protector of those children doesn’t have a choice in whether or not to care for her body.”  
  
Though it’s inane, Minerva always wants to grin when Palla is blunt with her. The words keep her sober. “You’re right, as usual. Yet my body is not what ails me.”  
  
The hard edges of Palla’s eyes and voice soften. “Then what does?”  
  
Minerva works her jaw, chewing at her thoughts. She would not be so trite as to say she regrets killing; to do so would dishonor the men she’s slain and herself. How can she claim to be above the savageness when the smell of blood still tints the air, rust and metal overpowering the freshness of dirt and dew?  
  
“Macedon is a land founded by slaves, not a land for the noble houses to weed out those who feel they must take,” she finally says. “Perhaps something could have been done to prevent this.”  
  
It’s Palla that tips down Minerva’s chin with a firm hand. “Do not speak of regret. I know you would never have abandoned a post where you felt you were most needed.” Her fingers slide up to brush grime away from a cut at the edge of Minerva’s cheek. Minerva’s eyelids twitch at the sting. Behind them Palla’s words circle, chasing away her fog.  
  
“You always find me when I forget myself,” Minerva says. Her thumb presses into a crease on the leg of her trousers, trying to stem the ache below. “And I know you would not do that, either. More so than I.”  
  
Palla’s knee is still planted in the dirt, her pose nonetheless noble. Her pegasus whinnies at the gate, trained well enough she never has to tether it to keep it still. She seems to sense that Minerva has more to say, though Minerva herself feels the words trip, half-formed, on her tongue. She continues slowly.  
  
“Palla, more than anyone I know the depth of your devotion. How you set all else aside for the sake of your duty, both to the crown and your siblings. All of Macedon needs you.”  
  
She has the urge to close her eyes; her voice already feels as if it comes from somewhere outside of her. But Palla deserves to be faced fully.  
  
“I thought it right this morning that I set out myself. I sat here afterward, feeling less grounded than I can remember, even though my boots were set in soil and I was away from the loftiness of upper classes.”  
  
Palla’s gaze is steady, unreadable. It hits Minerva what she’s preparing to ask for, a desire she had not considered voicing, not when Palla carries her own burdens and yet manages to take time to visit.  
  
Minerva wants help with caring for and protecting the children. She wants trust and companionship, a piece of her old life. She wants Palla, her counsel and her tenderness and the strong line of her shoulders.  
  
She wants the sky back.  
  
Yet a want cannot move her. A cut from a bandit’s knife burns below Minerva’s elbow, and she bites her tongue through a hiss. “I will not belabor the point. I only ask that you hear me.”  
  
“Always.”  
  
“I need you,” Minerva says. “Whether more than anyone else does is not my right to decide. Perhaps it’s yours. Either way, I had to make myself plain.”  
  
Something flickers across Palla’s face, a drop of guard she doesn’t seem to recover from even when her eyebrows lower and her mouth closes. After several breaths she takes Minerva’s hand, fist uncurling halfway as Palla presses the knuckles to her lips.  
  
“I’ve already told you. I am yours before I am Macedon’s, Commander. That stands whether or not you’ve claimed the throne.”  
  
The title strikes a dissonant chord. It’s something Minerva feels they should correct in the future, but that they need to carry them through this moment. Regardless she soars, feeling more stable in her path than she can remember.  
  
“Thank you,” she says, her other hand moving to cover Palla’s. “I cannot ask for anything more.”


	5. Propriety (Minerva/Palla)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the theme 'Texts From Last Night,' for which I chose "(856): I've never been this drunk around this many toddlers."

Wine is something Minerva has only partaken in on certain occasions: when water is unavailable and when ceremony calls for it. She does not drink it for the buzzed feeling that settled in ten—twenty?—minutes ago, now past the light fluttering of moths to a hornet in her head. However, one of the guests to the party in their little convent brought something harder than Minerva has experience with, and when it’s out of her system she’ll remember whether the girl’s name is Mileecha or Malaysia. For now it’s at least been kept out of the hands of the littlest ones, though Maria looks slightly flushed, and rounding them up seems to be taxing Palla more than herding recruits.  
  
Minerva watches her, lacking the propriety not to stare openly. The candles that were set out during the meal will be stubs soon, and their flickering casts a broken glow along Palla’s features. Her headband has somehow migrated to sit crookedly above her forehead, bending her bangs, and the only thing stopping Minerva from reaching to fix it is that Palla has plopped a toddler onto her lap and another one is clinging to her legs. When Minerva cocks her chin to get a better view of the light against the nape of Palla’s neck, she’s promptly punished with a tiny fist against her collar. She reaches to bat it away and somehow manages not to knock the child off before Palla comes and sees the state Minerva is in, apparently thinking better of putting her in charge.  
  
Palla pulls the toddler up and over her shoulder, and Minerva’s lips simply won’t close, feeling too gummy to press together. The light is now at Palla’s back, a silhouette framed like a portrait. The child at Minerva’s feet tries to climb up before Palla pries that one away and leads her out by the hand.  
  
A few moments later in which Minerva has done nothing but curse her pounding head, Palla returns with a hand on her hip. She says something, but the only way Minerva knows is that the mouth she’s watching is moving. Minerva’s own jaw finally hinges, and then it won’t stop, leaking all manner of words, things she wanted to say but wouldn’t.  
  
“You’re beautiful” is the statement that loosens the stick in the dam. A dozen explanations follow, a jumble of phrases like _your hair when you_ …that don’t satisfy. “You take such good care of us” comes closer to the heart of it, that and odes to Palla’s grace in the air and strength in battle, to her dedication, but it’s not until the sentiment leads into _let me take care of you_ that Palla freezes. She’s been tidying up, murmuring calmly amused responses, but the rag in her hand drops, and she straightens as she turns to Minerva. A couple of the candles have died, and Minerva squints to make out what looks like a blush on Palla’s cheeks.  
  
“You need to lie down,” Palla says. Propriety or not, Minerva lacks the body coordination to do more than let Palla lead her away, and her only awareness after that is of a cot under her muscled back.  
  


xxxxxxx  
 

When Minerva wakes, her vision is spotty like a skyline cut by mountains. It takes a minute to clear it, and when she lifts her chin she sees Palla at the door with one of the clerics, who’s stirring some concoction. Minerva drops her head and bites back a groan.  
  
“Are you awake?”  
  
Minerva grunts ascent, and Palla makes her rise again to swallow a cup of what seems to be water mixed with bitter herbs. Minerva downs it without complaint, laying back in hopes that if she does, Palla will leave her to rest. It’s probably too optimistic to think the memories of her bumbling are fragments of a dream. She burns with shame at the slip of dignity, but more so with guilt at dumping her feelings on someone who’s already full to bursting yet restrains herself much better.  
  
Palla doesn’t leave, retrieving a tray from the corner with a crust of dark bread, which should be enough of an exercise to chew to fully rouse Minerva. It’s no bother to her; for a princess, she’s more unused to soft food at this point, other than the swill her prison guards had fed her. Palla kneels on the floor and relays the morning’s events; Minerva already slept past sunrise, and the light now hurts her eyes. Palla is close enough to touch, not that Minerva would. It wasn’t the drink or the lighting that made Palla beautiful, but without those things, the thought of speaking of it out loud fills Minerva’s mouth with cotton. Even if it hadn’t, she lost the right to do so after her behavior the night before.  
  
“Palla,” she says, when Palla has gone silent. “Forgive my indecency before. I…”  
  
Palla lifts a hand. “Minerva, please. We know each other well enough.”  
  
Minerva stops to absorb the name, the gentle forgiveness, before closing her eyes to guard from the harsh sun. She hears something shuffling, and then Palla quietly asks, “Did you speak truly?”  
  
“Of course. Do you think mere spirits could make me utter a falsehood?”  
  
When Minerva looks again at Palla, Palla’s hands are wringing, but her bowed head belies a smile. “Of course not. We shall talk more later—I must go watch the little ones. You weren’t the only one driven a bit loopy.”  
  
Minerva doesn’t have time to protest that before Palla takes the tray and leaves. Minerva rolls over, fidgeting under the blanket. Normally she’d work through this sort of thing with a training session, but it’ll be a good few hours before she trusts herself with an axe. For now, she can only lie until her headache subsides, a smile tugging her lips regardless.


	6. May Lightning Strike (Minerva/Palla)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the themes 'Twist' and 'Want.'

Minerva has to tilt her chin up to meet Palla’s eyes. It’s not as steep as with Michaelis, her neck hurting if she looks at him too long (not that she’ll lower her chin for him, not even now), but after days of looking down at Maria and the children at the convent, the motion stands out.  
  
Palla’s eyes are dark and full of storms, of need. It may have surprised anyone else—the orphans she’s been mothering, or Maria, who went to her at night once instead of Minerva—but Minerva’s perhaps the one person Palla will come to like this, just as Palla is the one Minerva calls upon in times of weakness. Still, at least one of them has always stayed strong. Now Minerva’s mouth is dry, and the hand on her arm trembles, and she knows they’re both waiting for the other to be weak first.  
  
It’s to save Palla the dignity that Minerva justifies giving in and closing the gap herself. Breathlessly she waits for lightning to strike, for the torch to blow out, for Naga to punish them somehow—to at least punish her, a princess who's abandoned her duty, for wanting. The word buzzes in the back of her mind, thrumming with its lack of emphasis. The only thing that can be said to be a disaster is that despite being older, Palla doesn’t seem any more familiar with these matters, and their jaws have only been exercised while shouting orders. Just as nothing breaks, nor does some hidden well of happiness within Minerva erupt, cancelling out the rawness of her years of bleeding. This is Palla, the one who can ground her just as gracefully as she can take to the skies, and Minerva’s pounding heart contrasts with the numbness that’s settled the rest of her.  
  
After they part to breathe, they don’t go far. Palla’s hand slides from Minerva’s arm to the small of her back, her fingers clenching the fabric in a way that twists Minerva’s heart, and Minerva lets herself brush the hair away from Palla’s skin.  
  
When Minerva can finally bring her chin up, the fire in Palla’s eyes still burns. Gently, Minerva leans back in to feed it.


	7. Loosen (Minerva/Palla)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt 'Dark.'

Moonlight trickles in through a hole in the ceiling that Minerva hasn’t had a chance to fix. She temporarily switched sleeping quarters with a pair of orphans, siblings who’d occupied the alcove, as she didn’t want the damp during rainy nights to make them ill. Now it’s a dry autumn night, though with how sticky Minerva feels it might as well be a humid summer day. Still the light is only enough to display slivers of skin over Palla’s jaw and cheekbone along with a lock of hair tucked between her shoulder and neck.  
  
Minerva closes her eyes, letting the dark take over. Ever since she was locked away it has made her wrists tense as if remembering being tied. She shakes them now to prove she can, then opens her eyes and reaches to run a calloused thumb along the lines of Palla she can see.  
  
Palla breathes in sharply before sighing as she brushes against the touch. Their bodies are still several inches apart, and it strikes Minerva how much Palla reacts to the slightest of things. She’s seen Palla give Catria battle pointers and push the hair from Est’s eyes, but Palla asks for so little. It’s not for lack of need, Minerva realizes that, and she’s learned—is learning, slowly—how to push through her own reservations to give.  
  
Again Minerva shuts her eyelids, letting her hand stray to where Palla’s collarbone juts out over the fringe of her dressing gown. It’s ironic how freeing the dark is now, dropping her inhibitions enough to let her slide her fingers under the fabric and feel Palla’s goose bumps. In the daylight Minerva turns away when Palla so much as removes her armor, and she can still see the shape of the word _Commander_ on Palla’s lips, even when they’ve spent the day praying and cooking and building side-by-side.  
  
When another sigh tumbles from Palla’s mouth, it carries with it the syllables _Minerva,_ and her love slides across the pallet to pull her close.


	8. Sprout (Faye/Silque)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Shakespeare prompt table quote "Nothing can be made out of nothing" - _King Lear_
> 
> Part one of A New Dream.

The sun beats down against Faye’s neck. After her morning of hunching over, it’s stiff when she stretches it, spotting the men working near her. She bends further back, but the sky offers no clouds to turn into pictures, and without distractions she can’t ignore their conversation.

“I don’t know how we’re supposed to feed more mouths than usual when we’ve been growing less,” one says, leaning on his hoe. The man next to him is still working with his.  
  
“Not by complaining, that’s for sure. Besides, that’s what the help from the capital is for.”  
  
“It’s not enough! I spent so long babysitting soldiers yesterday that I barely got to pick up my hoe! And do you want to ‘entertain’ the knight that comes for us when we don’t meet our quota?”  
  
“C’mon, It’s Alm, he wouldn’t--”  
  
“That’s King Alm,” a nearby soldier barks, and Faye ducks her head.  
  
She doesn’t realize how rigid her back is until a hand touches it, making her snap up like a bowstring. “Peace,” Silque says, kneeling beside her. “I thought you might like some company.”  
  
In the past, no. “Yeah, thanks.”  
  
Silque’s chattering distracts her from not only the men, but also the clumsiness of her own planting. She isn’t practiced with farm tools, let alone whatever methods the castle has charged inventors with developing. Her dreams of growing her own food had always been to feed herself and Alm, and perhaps a family. A garden would have sufficed. But the world is larger, she’s seen it herself--even if it’s hard to remember from her place in someone’s shadow.  
  
Silque fills in the gaps, reminiscing about places and events that Faye can barely recall. In truth, Faye doesn’t need to know, especially when Silque strays into embarrassing or scandalous incidents among the army. But it fills in time while the sun grows hotter still overhead, and it’s nicer to listen to than the village men, all of whom have conflicting accounts about the state outside.  
  
“I’d forgotten how different the soil is on the mainland,” Silque says, holding clumps between her fingers as if expecting it to sift through. “Not to mention the alcohol…”  
  
By now Faye knows that Silque used to only eat fish, and that at times she had to gird herself for tempests, though she tempted fate by taking walks beforehand. Faye can imagine it--Silque floating at the top of a cliff, the wind swirling her hair and habit while her face remains as smooth as a pond.  
  
It almost makes her want to leave the village again, just to watch.  
  
She busies herself with her work. She doesn’t want to think about how Silque, too, is bigger than this village. She likes to imagine she’s the reason Silque chose to help Ram, that Silque came all this way just for _her_. That warms her more than the dirt giving way under her calloused fingertips and hiding beneath her nails.  
  
“Storing so much wine in the priory got us in trouble sometimes,” Silque says with a hum. “Especially when there were little ones about.”  
  
Though she rolls her eyes, Faye tucks the seeds into bed like a handful of children. A farmer shouts at her to hurry up. It’s not the first time; she’s better at hunting, but the others talk about prioritizing the long-term.  
  
The only future she pictured has been shattered. She casts a furtive look at the halo the sun casts around Silque’s hair and tries to place her in a new dream.  
  
After the farmer’s rebuke Silque put down her head, which she lifts to wink at Faye. Silque isn’t a dream. She’s right here.  
  
The seeds have just been planted, but Faye feels them beginning to sprout.


	9. Wagging Tongues (Faye/Silque)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Shakespeare prompt table quote "For where thou art, there is the world itself, and where thou art not, desolation" - _Henry IV_
> 
> Part two of A New Dream.

The kitchen window frames Silque in soft light, silhouetting the curve of her back. Faye sweeps the floor while Silque chops carrots and Ma kneads dough, telling Silque how to know when it’s come together. It’s a safe topic, and Faye’s heart settles seeing their easy smiles.  
  
“You have my gratitude for hosting me,” Silque says.  
  
“Anytime, dear. We’re just glad Faye brought home a friend. It was a relief when she started writing us about someone new.”  
  
Faye halts. “Ma.”  
  
“And such a helpful pair of hands. Mila knows we need them. The neighbors have several children, some of them getting hitched...”  
  
“Ma!”  
  
“We just have our little peach. No brothers to walk with her, so she hung around those boys. ‘Course, we didn’t think she’d go off to war with them…”  
  
“She is a strong and lovely young woman,” Silque says with a laugh. Though Faye’s lips lift at the praise, she hides her flushed face and sweeps harder.  
  
After dinner, Ma sends them off to the well. The meal was as nice as could be--Ma used more of the stores than she should have in these times, eager to impress their guest, and Faye doesn’t blame her--but Faye is relieved to be out in the twilight, where only bugs speak. Silque hums a hymn along with them, and that’s not so bad, wordless as it is. Faye’s bucket swings with the rhythm.  
  
As she swats a fly from her neck, Faye surprises herself by speaking. “Lots of wagging tongues around here, huh? Sorry about that.”  
  
“She’s quite friendly. Has she truly lived her whole life in Ram Village?”  
  
“Yeah. I bet you think that’s boring, but it was a nice life, before trouble came out this far.”  
  
Silque’s gaze appears to sail away, far past the nearby forest, and Faye worries she’s pushed her there. “It must be nice to have someone so reliable. I have only known mothers to disappear without warning.”  
  
“Silque, I didn’t…” Her dinner sets hard in her stomach, but Silque smiles.  
  
“Nor did I. I’m simply glad for it. You’ve all welcomed me so warmly.”  
  
Faye’s stomach is still tightening, trying to collapse her from within. She drops the bucket to take Silque’s hand in both of hers. They’re cool from the night air, like an ocean breeze in the forest, and it makes her conscious of her own heat. “Stay as long as you want.”  
  
Surprise lifts Silque’s usual composure, her lips parting and brows disappearing beneath her bangs. Like a ripple in a pond it passes, and like a ripple Faye’s insides turn as Silque presses her palm.


	10. Loves Me, Loves Me Not (Faye/Silque)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Shakespeare prompt table quote "The field's chief flower, sweet above compare" - Venus and Adonis
> 
> Part three of A New Dream.

It’s hard not to skip ahead when the flowers dot the horizon, white and pink against the grass. Faye spins around to wave on Silque, who follows at an even gait. “Hurry up,” Faye calls before racing ahead. Already orange tinges the sky, and once night falls it will cover the sight.  
  
Silque exclaims in delight at the blanket of flowers laid before them. Triumph thrums in Faye’s heart. “You work so hard,” Faye says. “And you spend your spare time in that drab cemetery. I thought you might like to see the prettier part of Ram.”  
  
Silque hides a twinkle with a wink. “Yes, this is a sight for sore eyes.”  
  
They settle in the grass, soft below Faye’s ankles, and Faye shows Silque how to make chains to circle their necks and wrist. “What a nice way to spend an evening,” Silque says. “Back on Novis, I used to go out early to see the morning glories bloom.”  
  
“Morning glories?”  
  
“Yes, one of the only flowers as blue as my hair. I’m afraid I stood out among Mila’s followers elsewise.” A dour shadow overtakes her, a remnant of Rigel that Faye does not know how to reach through. Like a cloud in the wind it passes. “Did you have any such rituals?”  
  
Faye twirls a stem and chews at her lip. She would often pluck petals one by one. _He loves me, he loves me not…_ No matter the result, she would cry out, then scurry to do it again.  
  
She no longer needs to ask nature. She asked him, and he told her, with kind, pitying eyes.   
  
“Faye?” A breeze disrupts Silque’s curtain of hair, brushing it against her jaw. Faye worries at a petal, silken between her thumb and forefinger, which releases its floral aroma. She remembers crushing them below her ears in case Alm would notice; Clair has since let her sample finer perfumes, not that such things really get at the heart.   
  
“Oh, sorry. Not really,” Faye says, bringing the flower into her lap to pluck a petal.  
  
 _She loves me, she loves me not..._


	11. To Her I Swear (Faye/Silque)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Shakespeare prompt table quote "I had no judgment when to her I swore" - A Midsummer Night's Dream
> 
> Part four of A New Dream.

Long after the moonlight stretches across Silque’s pallet, Faye lays awake listening to her soft snores. Her own pallet is close enough that she could run her hand around Silque’s uncovered head, feel her hair against its curve and trail to stroke her cheek. Faye’s fingers knead at her own nightgown until finally she throws off her sheet. After tiptoeing to the door, she eases it open and slips out.  
  
The night air settles around her ankles, and gravel sticks to the calluses of her bare feet, but she does not retrieve her boots. Instead she follows a well-trodden path past the fields until she reaches the cemetery.  
  
Not sure who she intended to see, she kneels in front of a random tombstone and traces its cracks. After those knights attacked Ram in her childhood, she heard their clanking whenever she visited. Since her return home she instead expects terrors to reach gnarled claws from the ground. If she’d been thinking, she would have brought her bow. She clutches her ankles and rocks back and forth.  
  
Footsteps against the grass make her leap to her feet, a fist drawn back. Silque holds up a palm. Her other carries a candle that glows orange on the bottom of her chin and drooped eyelids, which shield concern.  
  
Thankfully Silque asks nothing, only kneels along with Faye and bows her head. Faye forces herself not to look. She never had the same reservations about watching Alm, even though he might have minded more. After a time, a robe is placed around her shoulders so gently she barely starts.  
  
“I’m glad I got another chance to pay my respects,” Silque says.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“It’s been lovely, but I’m afraid I must soon depart.”  
  
Faye’s heart drops into her stomach. “By yourself?”  
  
“I’ve no choice. I was going to wait for a knight escort, but Ram’s rather out of the way. I’d like to make it to shelter before winter.”  
  
Faye pulls the robe tighter around her and stares at the tombstone without seeing it. “It’s too dangerous. With Mila gone, nobody bothers to stop bandits from retaking the shrines. And after the war, so many knights got discharged for injuries.”  
  
“I’ve no choice,” Silque repeats. The remorse in her tone makes Faye bristle. She turns to Silque, then ducks in front so Silque has to look at her.  
  
“Take me with you.”  
  
Silque shifts the candle away from Faye’s dangling braids. The light flickers in her wide eyes. “You don’t even know where I’m going.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter. It’s not safe to travel on your own. I can protect you. I was a soldier, you know.”  
  
“I would hire your services as a mercenary, but I’m afraid I can’t afford it.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter! We’re friends, aren’t we? You wanted so badly to be friends.” Faye’s voice breaks off, quiet and pitiful, when she hears it buck to fill the empty night. “I can help in other ways, too. I know you. You’re going to help the sick and wounded and stuff, right? I can dress wounds and treat fevers. I can cook. I can…”  
  
“It’s all right, Faye. I never doubted your abilities. And you’re right, we’re friends. You don’t have to prove your worth to me.”  
  
The robe has slipped from Faye’s shoulders. Silque sets down the candle to replace the robe, which Faye clutches with trembling fingers.  
  
“I only worry about dragging you around on my business,” Silque continues. “But if you want to come that badly, I would love your companionship.”  
  
_She would love. She would love. She would love._  
  
“You mean it?”  
  
“Yes. To be honest, I was hoping you would offer.”  
  
Though the dead rest beneath her, Faye’s heart beats more alive than in months. “Thanks so much. I swear I’ll keep you safe. And carry your supplies, and—”  
  
Silque cuts her off with a laugh. “I don’t doubt it, Faye.”


	12. All the Devils (Faye/Silque)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Shakespeare prompt table quote "Hell is empty and all the devils are here" - _The Tempest_
> 
> Part five of A New Dream.
> 
> Warning for a corpse.

The corpse at Faye’s feet looks too familiar. His bulging eyes and scarred nose mean nothing to her, but he lies with arrows in his stomach and his arm bent under his back, not far from where she made her first kill. Back then she’d been sick behind a bush so the boys wouldn’t send her home. Now she bends to retrieve her arrows, only grimacing when one sticks.

Unplugged, the wound oozes, and Silque kneels by the body with her hands clasped. Seeing that she isn’t injured, Faye’s empty spaces fill with relief. She stands and watches for movement in the surrounding forest while Silque prays. She can’t remember much from when Alm rescued Silque (other than his hands on a stranger’s shoulders, and a knot in Faye’s stomach), but she won’t get a fresh image.

“I'm afraid backtracking to Ram’s cemetery would take too long,” Silque says.

_This_ monster, beside great-grandma and -grandpa? “Let’s just move on.”

“I’d like to at least cover him. Too many bodies have gone without rites.”

Faye would leave a scavenger to the scavengers, but Silque’s bowed head touches her. It takes all of her willpower not to brush the hair from Silque’s face when she again joins her on the ground. “I’ll help move him, then.”

When Silque’s nose lifts, a small smile appears beneath it, and Faye barely notices the rotten stench.


	13. A Dream Itself (Faye/Silque)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Shakespeare prompt table quote "A dream itself is but a shadow" - _Hamlet_
> 
> Part six of A New Dream.

“Do you miss him?”  
  
Silque’s voice barely rises above the bugs. They’re aggressive this close to a stream, and Faye swats them away from her heating face.  
  
“Yes,” Faye says, her voice tight. “No. I dunno.”  
  
Something inside Faye shatters, the fragments screeching _traitor_. Her finger traces a band of stars that Silque told her represents a hero’s sword. Even with the fire put out, it’s only a line of dots.  
  
“Of course I want to see him again.” She wants to see all of them again, but especially him. “But mostly I miss… Anyway, it doesn’t matter now.”  
  
“It matters to me,” Silque says. A lump forms in Faye’s throat. “What is it you miss?”  
  
A bug tickles Faye’s nose. She reaches for it and grasps at empty air.  
  
“I miss the dream--making a home that could run itself so well, we’d never have to leave. And even if we did, and I got cornered by knights, my own knight would be there to protect me.”  
  
The stream burbles, little leaps as it flows on and on. The longer she listens to it, the more Faye’s heart sinks. Silque must think her pathetic.  
  
“Some time ago, bandits caught up to me in the woods,” Silque says. Faye lurches upright and twists to find Silque safe beside her.  
  
“Not those horrible men from the shrine?”  
  
“No, another group. I don’t mean to alarm you; a stranger rescued me. This is just to say that I can understand your dream. I don’t know what would have happened on this journey without you fighting at my side.”  
  
“I’ll fight even harder,” Faye says, a grin twisting her face. She’s glad Silque can’t see; it’s probably not the time. “I’ll keep you safe no matter what.”  
  
Silque laughs, light and fond, and Faye’s face heats again. “I’ve no doubt.”


	14. I in Your Sweet Thoughts (Faye/Silque)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Shakespeare prompt table quote "That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot" - Sonnet 71
> 
> Part seven of A New Dream.

At the forest’s edge, the trees are sparse enough the girls no longer squeeze together to fit through. Faye’s disappointment is interrupted by a call for help that makes Silque take off, Faye close at her heels. A child’s crying quickens Faye’s pace, her shorter legs surpassing Silque. When she finds a woman kneeling next to an intact child, she halts, bow in hand.  
  
“He ran ahead and broke his ankle, and I couldn’t get him to move...” The woman’s embarrassed look becomes fearful as it locks onto Faye’s quiver of arrows.  
  
Thankfully, Silque arrives. Her soothing tone does little to quiet the child, but she coaxes words from him, and begins setting the ankle. Faye fidgets with her forgotten set of hands.  
  
After remembering the herbs in her bag, she prepares something to put the boy to sleep. Mending bones by magic will allow him to walk again soon, but the pain has made hardened soldiers cry. _That_ would give him something to fuss over.  
  
Once he’s asleep and mended, the mother thanks Silque profusely, and receives a light lecture about taking care in the woods. Silque’s gentle smile as she looks at the boy twists Faye’s heart. It’s a fond feeling, she assumes, but in the ache in her chest does not disappear as they depart. 

* * *

Even now, Faye doesn’t know where her feet carry her every day. She relies on Silque’s goals and navigational skills, for her part supplying her bow to hunt and fight. Familiar fears drives her to train after they’re safe and fed, drawing her bowstring until her fingers ache. 

Silque watches sometimes, even when Faye doesn’t ask. She is so used to begging for eyes on her that it almost trips her up, but she focuses harder than ever on her targets, grinning when she hits them all.

“Did you see?” she asks.

Normally, Silque confirms that she had. The evening after they help the boy, she is quiet. She’s settled against a trunk, her tome open on her lap, her gaze not quite on the arrows where they’ve hit their mark. If she were aiming herself, she’d miss. A fatal error, Mycen’s voice rings in Faye’s head.

“Silque?”

Silque blinks. “Ah, yes.”

Faye abandons her practice to ask after Silque, but Silque only shakes her head. “Did the healing drain you?” Faye asks, leaning down to examine Silque. It was a small spell for a saint of her caliber, but Mila no longer supplies fresh magic, or--or however it works.

“I’ll be fine, though I imagine it makes little difference.”

“What are you saying? I don’t know where I’d be without you--your knowledge.”

“Safe back home in your village, for one thing.” The bitterness in her tone startles Faye. Glancing up at her, Silque sighs. “I’m sorry. It was crass of me to tease.”

Still Silque seems distracted, and she’s withdrawn for the rest of the evening, leaving Faye to fret until dawn.

* * *

When dawn hits, Silque smiles and apologizes for her previous mood. She gathers the arrows Faye forgot, praising their precision, and begins gathering berries to fill out their breakfast. Faye leaps to help, but Silque suggests another task in a tone that implies not to follow. Faye shuffles off, the ache returning to gnaw at her.

Silque’s face as she cradled the child’s head has not left Faye, either. It sticks like sap on her skin, forcing her to turn it over until she pinpoints the source of her agitation: the moment Silque’s sympathy became satisfaction.

Though they could find the open road, they remain in the forest for its food and shelter. Its shadows heighten Faye’s nerves, every rustle making her hold her breath in case the clank of metal follows. She doesn’t realize she’s stopped until a hand touches her shoulder. She whirls on Silque, who snaps it back, but keeps it hovering. Pity is written all over her face. However ghastly Faye must look, it doesn’t help.

“I’m fine,” Faye says, her voice jittery. “You don’t need to feel sorry for me.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I’m just a patient to you, right? A child to save so you can feel good? But a staff can’t fix a broken heart.”

It was mending, she thought, but it’s formed new cracks that deepen when she sees Silque’s stunned face. Silque bows her head, hair hiding her pink cheeks like curtains drawn over a sunset.

“I don’t save people to--I--Oh, Faye.” She sighs, not in resignation, but with a rush of feeling that makes Faye inhale.

“I admit, I took pity on you,” Silque continues, and Faye bristles. “I thought you were a lonely soul, like I was. You withdrew when I first sought a woman’s company, after all. But that was then. Now, after the war, after Mila--I have to admit I can’t save everyone.”

Silque’s melancholy of the night before returns to Faye, lowering her defenses. How could she have forgotten Silque’s feelings? Before she can respond, Silque continues, her voice low and strange.

“After my past experiences traveling, is it too selfish to want a beautiful, talented woman to join me?”

No amount of hair can hide Silque’s red face now, and Faye can’t process it along with the words, the fact that they’re about her.

The chance slips away, as Silque turns and straightens, letting out a slow breath. “My apologies. We must make up for lost time if we are to remain on track.”

Only her fear of being left behind propels Faye to follow Silque, her eyes trained between her shoulders and a stronger ache than ever in her heart.


	15. Seven Ways Sonia Knows she’s Not a Morph (Sonia/Ursula)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for an unhealthy relationship, references to violence, and generally what the ship and prompt imply.
> 
> For the theme 'The Seven Deadly Sins.'

Those who defy Lord Nergal soon learn the error of their ways.  Sonia has roasted many herself, deigning to let their screams mingle with her laughter.  Those who spit upon Sonia, and Sonia alone, earn a special brand of hellfire; tongues of flame that do their job as she looks on in silence, using only a tilt of her head to bade Ursula dispose of the ash.

xxxxxxx

Stragglers remain from the original Black Fang, grunts too weak to harm Lord Nergal’s plan.  Sonia sees the doubt in their sidelong glances while they address Brendan, and her nails tap against her tome.  She is the puppeteer; she wields the power among the Fangs, and no else.  Such incompetent goons are unworthy of Ursula’s magic, yet Sonia trusts nobody else to claim the group in her name.  Within a fortnight the stragglers are gone. 

xxxxxxx

Limstella never ceases in fulfilling their duties, not even to rest.  Why should they?  A puppet’s body does not need maintenance.  Once it’s reached its limit, it’s tossed aside in a tangle of strings and broken wood. 

Sonia lounges on a table in the study, her elbow cushioned by a makeshift pillow made of Ursula’s cape, and watches Ursula search painstakingly through a tome for a spell.  She turns the pages carefully with gloved hands, not licking her fingers as many crass mages do, stopping only to feed Sonia dried fruit soaked in wine.  She doesn’t ask why Sonia wants to learn body alteration.

xxxxxxx

“Tell me I’m perfect,” Sonia says, “more perfect than even Lord Nergal himself.”

Ursula adjusts the bodice of Sonia’s dress while Sonia twists in the mirror, breaking contact with the reflection of her golden eyes to study Ursula’s bowed head.  “Of course, Lady Sonia.  No master could be more perfect.” 

xxxxxxx

With a flawless appearance, Sonia naturally doesn’t need jewelry or special clothes; still she switches her earrings for Ursula’s and covers her arms in bangles, shaking her wrists to make them clink and glimmer.  Ursula presses her lips to them so as not to smudge paint onto Sonia’s skin; then, at Sonia’s command, she leaves to find more, as alabaster still shows in the gaps between gold.

xxxxxxx

Under Sonia’s watch Ursula slides out of her boots to avoid tracking dirt into Sonia’s domain.  Sonia orders the gloves off, too, in case any of the blood staining them is fresh, and curls her lip at the sight of the marks on Ursula’s skin.  Would it not have required Sonia to join her on the ground, Sonia could have tangled herself within those limbs until they turned red.  Sonia crosses her legs and speaks only of the business at hand.

xxxxxxx

There is no glint in Limstella’s eyes when Nergal tells them they are his most perfect creation.  The yellow might as well be an ugly copper for how dull it is, Sonia thinks as she slips away, her hands clenching and twisting in the crook of her arms.

No matter.  Sonia is not a creation.  In all her flaws, Sonia is still above them.


	16. A Single-Token Hoard (Florina/Ninian)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Poems by Sappho" prompt table, from the following poem:
> 
> _Moon has set_   
>  _and Pleiades: middle_   
>  _night, the hour goes by,_   
>  _alone I lie._

Cold air whistles through cracks in the cabin. Florina lies on her stomach, nose pressed into the pillow, arms tucked under her until the bangle digs into her chest. She flips over and spins it around on her wrist. It doesn’t chafe, at least, even if the lock of hair cushioning it sometimes itches.  
  
She rests the bangle back against her chest, its ache nothing to do with the pressure. No moonlight illuminates the room, so in her mind’s eye she pictures the gold, old enough to be on the edge of tarnishing. Friends would know how to polish it. It makes no difference to her whether it shines as long as she can feel its weight.  
  
Growing up, one of Florina’s favorite stories about the ice dragon said that they stash hoards in mountain caves. Always flying from one place to the next with only her sisters, she fancied having a place to return to with a pile of treasures to curl upon. It wouldn’t have to be silver tinsel. Anything that meant something to her, that could keep her spirits warm while storms threw ice against the roof.  
  
She had been too shy to ask if the stories were true. Ninian seemed to have little more than the dress on her back and a little brother, anyway, yet she placed the bangle around Florina’s wrist, saying she hoped Florina would wear it and think of courage. All she had to offer Ninian in a return were a pair of hairclips, but she’s fulfilled Ninian’s hope. Though she has many brave friends, she cannot think of a braver image than that ice dragon, traveling among humans under a blistering sun.  
  
She wonders if it’s nighttime where is Ninian, too, and if it’s snowing. She wonders if Ninian is inside, if she has treasures to keep her company, if she’s wearing the clips—and if, as Florina asked, she’s thinking of belonging.


	17. Paper Faces (Elincia/Nailah)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the theme 'Mask.'

Nailah holds up the mask, its beads glinting in the sunlight like real gold. The clay is painted cream with green accents, a scheme that Elincia thinks would suit her if she ever got the chance to hide her face at a ball, though she’s only afforded more practical disguises.   
  
“All of the Begnion nobles are wearing that style. It’s not long ‘til the next dance, so get’em now before all the good ones are snatched up,” the merchant says with a wink. Nailah disregards them, still tilting the mask, and Elincia engages the merchant politely until Nailah puts it back and moves on.   
  
Elincia apologizes to a couple she darts between to keep up with Nailah’s firm strides. The streets are thrumming with shoppers buying fabrics and accessories in preparation for the event, perfect for a pair of hooded queens to get lost in while experiencing Crimean city life. Catching the shape of Nailah’s swishing tail beneath her cloak, Elincia taps her on the shoulder, and Nailah slows and adjusts it with a low growl. “What were those masks for?” she asks while she smoothes the fabric.  
  
“The next dance is a masquerade, where it’s custom for guests to disguise their identities. The evening’s wrapped in mystique. It’s popular among those who want a clean slate, if only for a night.” Elincia lets a sigh slip. She always found the notion romantic, herself. What sorts of love could bloom if people threw away initial judgments? Besides, she thinks, wrapping her cloak tighter around herself, it isn’t as if she wouldn’t sometimes like others to disregard her identity.  
  
“Are the masks always made with feathers?” Nailah asks.  
  
“Not always. Some are decorated with ribbon or other adornments.” Noticing Nailah’s squinted eyes, Elincia clasps her hands. “Ah…they’re from birds, real birds, not…”  
  
Nailah tosses her head, a gesture Elincia has learned means the same as waving a hand in dismissal. “The event sounds interesting, since those who live here are not as equal as those in Hatari. I could see Beorc and Laguz using the opportunity to mingle. But I don’t understand the mask—it covers only part of the face. It doesn’t do a thing to hide the wearer’s smell.”  
  
“I hadn’t thought of that. Beorc don’t have strong enough senses to tell, unless someone wears a unique perfume, I suppose.”  
  
A dog barrels past, causing barking to surround them. Nailah grins at a spot in the distance Elincia can’t make out. “That sounds horribly inconvenient. We wolves can rely on our noses. For instance…” Nailah stops to bend close to Elincia’s ear, brushing the fabric over it out of the way. “These hoods fool only Beorc.”  
  
Her breath feels hot and smells of meat; between her, the herons, and the Beorc, the food in the castle hall has been diverse. Elincia’s cheeks warm.  
  
“Do…do you think anyone in this crowd notices?” Many Gallians visit nearby stalls, as Nailah was right about the masquerades’ broad appeal. They can always tell, then, if their partner is Laguz or Beorc. Elincia wonders if the Beorc attending figure that out.   
  
Nailah’s laughter is rich, the voice of a queen whose howls fill a desert. “We’ve attracted quite a lot of interest. Don’t worry, though. The Beorc haven’t caught on to either of us, and you’re quite safe.”   
  
Fangs press against the skin below Elincia’s ear as if to demonstrate, and goose bumps ring her neck like beads, though she knows Nailah is right.


	18. Toil and Trouble (Titania/Almedha)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of Former Knight and Former Queen
> 
> For the "Poems by Sappho" prompt table, from the following poem:
> 
> _you burn me_

The voice cuts through the air around the lake, muggy and thick with buzzing bugs. “Such a beautiful axe—when was the last time it cut more than wood?”  
  
Titania sighs and lowers her weapon, wiping sweat from her temples with a grimy glove. “Lady Almedha. What can I do for you?” Almedha sits perched on a nearby rock as if to make it her throne, yet there’s something improper in the bend of her knees, and the hand curled beneath her chin gives the impression of a cat eyeing a curiosity. When Almedha crosses her legs, Titania sees that the hem of her gown is dirtied and torn. She does not seem to care.  
  
“Oh, I’m simply passing through.” For someone who claims to find the company’s base and workload scandalously dull, Lady Almedha comes around often. _What of that tactician?_ she always asks. _Have you received word from him? Goodness me if he’s not working for someone who can make proper use of his talents!_ Titania’s tiredness penetrates her bones, and she only ever says _I don’t know_.  
  
Today Almedha does not ask about Soren. She catches an insect between her thumb and forefinger, eyeing the smear on her skin with disinterest before popping it in her mouth. Titania looks away and plants her axe in the ground, leaning on it. Peacetime does not work her muscles the way war does, and she’s found herself seeking that perpetual ache by training almost to the peak of too much—almost. Restraint is her most necessary virtue.  
  
Almedha is licking her fingers when Titania turns back. This lakeside must be a veritable feast—perhaps that’s what she’s here for, Titania thinks humorlessly. “But there is something you can do for me,” Almedha concludes.  
  
Even now Titania inclines her head to nobility. “Yes, my lady? Speak and it shall be done, if I am able.”  
  
Without drying her fingers, Almedha waves a hand to gesture at their surroundings. “Quit this company. Rejoin the army. Your power is being wasted.”  
  
It’s nothing Titania hasn’t heard before, but from those lips it makes her jaw set. “With all due respect, that is one thing I am not able—or will not do. I’m as sworn to the Greil Mercenaries as is a knight to any liege.”  
  
“Quaint,” Almedha drawls. “And disappointing.”  
  
“May I ask the reason? If you don’t mind my saying so, recruiting a knight to Crimea’s service does you no good.”  
  
“I told you—your power is being wasted. Nothing burns me more.”  
  
“I’m proud of the work I do,” Titania says, her tone even from reciting the same line Ashera—Yune…?—knows how many times, yet her hand clenches around the axe’s pole. Perhaps it’s the way Almedha makes it out to be a personal offense, as if what this mercenary in a foreign land does concerns her. Titania has done plenty in her career that might draw attention, but that’s all in the past. “Knight or no, I can still protect those in need and those I care for.”  
  
In lieu of response Almedha runs her tongue along her teeth—picking out a stuck fly?—which Titania notices are pointed. It seems rude to look, so she lowers her gaze. Red embroidery is worked into the bosom of Almedha’s dress, pulling Titania up into Almedha’s lava-like eyes and causing a twinge she knows comes with a memory. Before it can solidify, Almedha closes them.  
  
“Then be my knight. Protecting my assets shouldn’t keep you busy enough to tear you away from your post.” Almedha’s eyes glint—she’s joking. She hardly has land or vassals to appoint now. She must be more than bored, hanging around this place without attendants; though Titania knows little about her, Ike had some sympathy for her, and that holds weight considering how few nobles he gives the benefit of the doubt. Titania humors her.  
  
“Oh? In that case, what would you have me do in your service?”  
  
Almedha raises her chin and tosses her head, hair falling back from her shoulder. “I was watching you train. Your technique is honed, but you’re holding back. Your body is built for greater strikes.”  
  
Titania considers her, pursing her lips. It’s true, she has no need to exert herself near to her limits, let alone beyond. It’s peacetime, and she’s better equipped to perform her duties if she’s healthy. Even if the family she’s sworn to is splintering, sense must prevail.  
  
Yet she remembers how she changes in the heat of battle, the way her body quivers when faced with a worthy foe, the feeling of tapping into primal rawness and moving outside of herself. The challenge.  
  
“I can’t deny what you say, Lady Almedha—but then, I ask again, what would you have me do?”  
  
When Almedha smiles, her fangs flash. “Show me what you’re capable of. If I’m interested enough, we shall see.”  
  
Titania turns the proposition around in her head. The burn is still there, slicing a patch between her ribs. She knows from experience there’s only one way to work it off.  
  
Pulling the axe from the ground, Titania adjusts her weight and levels it. “Gladly,” she says. “But if I may, I’m interested in learning your capabilities as well.”  
  
Almedha’s laughter is reminiscent of the berries that give one burst of juice before leaving prickling seeds and a bitter taste, the ones that make Mist scratch at her tongue. “We shall see,” she says again, and Titania’s insides run molten.


	19. A Different Home (Titania/Almedha)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of Former Knight and Former Queen
> 
> For the theme 'Home.'

Almedha examines the company’s weapon inventory, her thoughts on it unreadable. She seemed impressed enough by Titania’s axe—or maybe just Titania—but the company keeps only the weapons as it needs, which at the moment is fewer than times past.  
  
“If you’ve need of shelter, you’re welcome to stay the night,” Titania says as she puts away her axe. Almedha has never accepted the offer before; now she wrinkles her nose, a gesture Titania misinterprets.  
  
“I’ve no need,” Almedha says. Of course—she should have castles and vassals to suit her needs, not a fort and a company far from home. “But I daresay you need me here if you’re not to rust. I’ll accept.”  
  
Titania smiles, more pleased than she’d expect. Her muscles still burn from training under Almedha’s watchful eye, and she’s in a good enough mood to disregard Almedha’s more grating traits.  
  
“It’s a shame Oscar isn’t here, but Mist’s cooking has gotten quite good,” Titania says while Almedha lifts a sword. She doesn’t hold it with the grip of one trained to, nor does she seem fazed by it. Titania wishes Almedha’s puffed sleeves didn’t hide her muscle tone, for curiosity’s sake.  
  
Almedha switches the sword to her other hand, staring down its point. Her hair reflects across the metal in dark bands that climb up and down the blade. “Oh? I’m sure it will do.”  
  
Belatedly Titania remembers how Almedha ate the insects by the lake like dried fruit. “If you’d like us to prepare anything in particular, or would prefer to dine alone…”  
  
Almedha’s hair dangles dangerously close to the weapon. She tosses a lock over her shoulder. “I’ll dine at your table, and I’ll eat whatever you see fit to serve a guest.” She’s kept one hand in her hair, stroking it absently, and Titania fancies what it would look like in a braid. Jerking her chin to look sharply at Titania, Almedha grins, peeling her lips away from her gums as if purposefully showing off her mouth’s oddities. “Don’t worry. I’m not as drab and finicky as most of my kind. If my baby brother were here, you’d be unable to serve meat lest you make him ill. Though among Beorc food, I like Daein’s food best. Especially the hunted meat and the wine.”  
  
The wine—Titania restrains a grin. Somehow it’s not hard to picture Almedha at a bar, knocking back drinks and winning bets against foulmouthed locals. Titania’s made the treasured acquaintance of other Laguz royals, so she isn’t much surprised.  
  
When Mist’s told of the visitor, she’s just happy to have someone else to cook for. In the mess hall she sets a heaping helping of meat stew in front of Almedha, a dish she normally cooks in colder weather. Almedha sniffs the steam wafting from it and glances in silent question at Mist, who’s bouncing on her heels. The hall is quiet. Boyd and Rolf took their trainees on an expedition early that morning.  
  
“It’s my current go-to for cheering people up,” Mist chirps. “It’s warm and hearty, right?”  
  
“That it is, but do I look in need of cheering?” Almedha sounds more amused than affronted, stirring the stew with the accompanying crust of bread. Mist stutters anyway until Titania suggests she deliver some to Rhys, who’s in bed with a fever. Titania sits beside Almedha with her own bowl, seeing that Almedha is situated before closing her eyes to take the first bite. Mist’s cooking is as familiar as anything now, and while Elena never got a chance to teach her, it invokes a similar comfort.  
  
When she hears only her own chewing, she opens her eyes and finds Almedha watching her. “For someone so fierce in training, you look rather soft,” Almedha says. Though chuckling, Titania lowers her gaze and changes the subject. She’d thought the same of Greil, once upon a time, in a different home.  
  
The discussion turns to Almedha’s travels, which turns to politics, which heats up as courtesy makes way for the two’s differing views. Almedha finds Queen Elincia’s foreign policy too passive, as in the aftermath of the rebellion she’s focused on her own people. Titania has seen first-hand how Crimea’s villages have been healing as a result; ‘thinking small,’ Almedha claims. Something about her curtness makes Titania settle into the debate as if they’ve done this hundreds of times.  
  
Long after the food and drink are drained Titania notes that Almedha has been propping her chin up with a hand, and Titania stands to escort Almedha to her quarters. Partway down the hall, Almedha halts and turns sharply, stopping in front of a closed door. Titania freezes. Almedha’s hand is on the knob, her nostrils flaring as she inhales. “The tactician lived here,” Almedha says.  
  
“Yes, and well, it might sound silly now, but he was such a private child…”  
  
Almedha drops the knob. “Perhaps later,” she murmurs. “You were showing me to my room?”  
  
Relieved, Titania redirects her, holding back from the threshold out of courtesy while Almedha enters the guest chamber. After giving her a chance to sort out her bag and sit on the bed, Titania asks if the room is suitable, to little response. Almedha stares at a spot on the floor she scuffs with her heel as she mumbles words Titania can’t understand, part of her shadowed as Titania holds the lantern in the doorway, and Titania understands what Mist meant.  
  
“Kurth begged my return home,” Almedha says quietly, “but I can’t go yet. After all I’ve done—I mean…”  
  
It doesn’t seem like she’s talking to Titania, but Titania enters to place the lantern on the desk. “All are welcome here. Stay as long as you would like.”  
  
Almedha mouths her thanks, and Titania takes the hint. As she leaves, she sees a teal stone cradled to Almedha’s chest, glowing between her clasped fingers.  
  
_For someone so fierce…_ Titania thinks. She closes the door gently.


	20. Despite Better Judgment (Titania/Almedha)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 of Former Knight and Former Queen
> 
> For the theme 'Late.'

Before breakfast ends, Titania offers to teach Almedha to wield a weapon. She cites the interest Almedha has shown in Titania’s training, though really she wants to give Almedha an excuse to stay, as she has the hunch Almedha is looking for one.  
  
“It would help you protect yourself,” she makes the mistake of adding. Almedha’s eyes flash, and she wastes no time in eating the sausage a neighboring farmer gave the company in gratitude.  
  
On the way to the supply shed Almedha stops in front of a tree. After circling it, she bends at the knees and wraps her arms around it. Before Titania can ask, Almedha heaves the tree upward until its thickest roots hang above the ground, dirt shaken from them. The contortions of her face smooth once she tosses the trunk aside, twigs cracking and leaves crunching as it smacks the ground. Titania can only stare.  
  
“You were saying before?” Almedha asks, brushing her hands. “About me protecting myself,” she clarifies when Titania begs her pardon.  
  
“Ah,” Titania says. “Yes, forgive me. I’ll be sure to call on you if we’ve ever need for a battering ram.” The corners of her lips turn up, and Almedha mirrors her.  
  
“Oh, I’ve seen a whole squadron of men work together to break into a fort, it’s just silly.” Almedha rotates her wrists, flexing long fingers. “I may have lost much, but I have this.” Titania has the grace to lower her chin.  
  


xxxxxxx

  
In the supply shed, Almedha closes her eyes and breathes deeply. “The smell of iron…it brings up such mixed feelings.”  
  
“It’s always calmed me, despite perhaps my better judgment,” Titania admits. The scent brings to mind war, but also armor, a favorite axe, a pot for stew.  
  
Almedha, as Titania suspected she would, chooses to learn the axe; Titania knows enough for rudimentary mentoring in the sword, bow, or lance, but Almedha wrinkles her nose at the first option and dismisses the rest. “I’m not opposed to a well-placed dagger or slip of poison, but if brute force is one’s aim, then the bigger the better,” she says. When Titania has her practice the basics with a training axe rather than her battleaxe, she pouts, petulance Titania might have expected from Sanaki.  
  
“I’m sorry, but I must follow protocol as I would for any trainee, and that includes safety first—not that this couldn’t make a mark if wielded improperly.” Titania claps the handle against her palm.  
  
“I once juggled daggers while intoxicated; I’m cursed with longevity,” Almedha drawls. Titania wishes she could tell when Almedha is joking.  
  
“I should have liked to see that.” Though amused, Titania maintains a steady demeanor as she leads them outside and starts Almedha chopping up the tree she uprooted. Only years spent in the company she’s kept prevents Titania from feeling dissonance at ordering a noblewoman to do chores. Almedha makes quick work of the task, letting Titania correct her grip and stance to form the needed base. To Almedha’s chagrin, they’re still practicing these things when the sun drops behind the trees.  
  
“It’s rather late in life for me to be learning this,” she says, leaning against the woodpile. Though she’d never ask, Titania wonders exactly how long a life that is.  
  
“Nonsense. If you’ve the strength to wield an axe, it’s not too late.”  
  
“I didn’t say too late—and I believe we’ve established that.” Almedha’s nose twitches, her eye twinkling. “In any case, thank you, Dame Titania. I’m sure you have your own duties to be attending to.”  
  
Titania inclines her head, a bit embarrassed to be surprised at the consideration. “I’ll attend to them later,” she says. “It’s my pleasure.”  
  
“If it’s pleasure you’re after, I really can offer much more than this.” Almedha’s arm dangles over the wood, her smile devilish, and Titania’s wish from before intensifies.  
  
“That’s…” When the fireflies came out, Titania doesn’t know, but they’re swarming now in clouds of flashing light. Humidity traps dirt and metal around her, heady scents that for once aren’t calming. A howling laugh worthy of Nailah cuts through.  
  
“You can’t be so baffled! What a knight you still are. I grow weary—I’m retiring for the night.”  
  
Slinging the axe over her shoulder, Almedha glides away. Titania shakes her head. She was the one who invited trouble into her life, so she can hardly complain.


	21. An Empty Chest (Titania/Almedha)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 4 of Former Knight and Former Queen
> 
> For the "Poems by Sappho" prompt table, from the following poem:
> 
> _I simply want to be dead._   
>  _Weeping she left me_   
>  _with many tears and said this:_   
>  _Oh how badly things have turned out for us._

For a fortnight Almedha is a cooperative guest. She accepts Titania’s training, however basic, and she keeps to the edges of the company’s affairs, spending much of the day in her room. The others tiptoe around her, whispering, and Titania cannot tell them that Almedha’s ears can pick up every word.  
  
Though Titania means to juggle her responsibilities to her company with those to her guest, she finds herself staying up later and later to finish everything. Perhaps she wouldn’t need to if Soren were there. She still finds herself avoiding shelves that he was particular about organizing, or realizing she’s neglected to document a job in the ledgers under the assumption he’ll do it. The older books are filled with his neat scrawl. An inkwell that he was always moving to the left of the desk and her to the right now collects a ring of dust.  
  
After years in and out of this fort, Titania could navigate it blindfolded, but she carries a lantern through the hall regardless. Her mind is off in faraway forests, her eyes making little use of the light until she hears a groan. It’s not unusual for the mercenaries to call out from nightmares or aches, but the voice isn’t theirs. Rounding the corner, Titania sucks in a breath when she sees that the door to Soren’s old room is ajar.  
  
Almedha lays across the cot, hair and legs and gown splayed. One of the gown’s seams has split, the thread showing no fraying as if forcefully torn.  
  
Titania prepares a lecture about privacy, about being a courteous guest—but tearstains streak Almedha’s cheeks, her hair matted in a semi-circle around the lightning bolt striking across her forehead, and she tilts her chin to peer at Titania with tired red eyes, the lids puffy around them…and Titania just _knows_ , everything she could only delicately suspect.  
  
_He never really let me mother him_ she has the urge to say, as if in disclaimer. It’s an inappropriate thing to voice by any measure, so instead she steps into the room even as her legs tense, almost tripping over a notch in the floor she never got a chance to anticipate, and perches beside Almedha on the bed. She doubts Almedha wants to be seen in this state, but it seems just as invasive to study the room, though it’s furnished only with a bare desk and an empty chest with a broken lock. Its top hangs off its hinges.  
  
“I thought…there would be something here,” Almedha says, closing her eyes.  
  
“He had few belongings,” Titania says gently, though she suspects it’s not what Almedha means. “He never liked keeping unnecessary things.”  
  
Receiving no response, Titania follows impulse and strokes Almedha’s hair as she once might have Elena’s or a younger Mist’s, unable to keep from the indulgent thought that she likes its relative dryness. Almedha doesn’t respond to the touch.  
  
“Would you like some tea?” Titania asks, restless to provide.  
  
“I want to wallow a while.  Leave me.”  
  
Almedha’s voice is deep and cracked, like the ground around the plateaus Titania saw but once in Goldoa. Titania rises, not moving to exit. Motherhood binds her to this woman who not long ago seemed incomprehensible.  
  
“Did you hear me?” Almedha asks.  
  
“I’ll get a needle and thread. Call if there’s anything else I can do.” Again Titania receives no response, and this time she leaves. A groan follows her down the hall.


	22. A Dame Breaks (Titania/Almedha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 5 of Former Knight and Former Queen
> 
> For the theme 'Kiss.'

Almedha stays in Soren’s room. Not as a seemingly conscious attempt to move in; Titania has to deliver Almedha’s belongings to her unrequested, as she barely moves from the bed. Mist and Rhys ask if she’s sick. Titania gives vague answers and brings Almedha’s food herself.

At first, Almedha doesn’t acknowledge her. The food tray has just as much chance of being full when Titania comes to pick it up as not, so she takes to bringing her own food as well and sitting on the other side of the tray to eat, such that Almedha must finish at least part of her meal if she wants Titania to leave her alone.

“I was thinking about your training,” Titania says one day. They’ve mostly sat on the bed in silence, as Titania does not want to push the situation, but judging by the disheveled sheets Almedha is growing restless.

“I’m not interested, thank you.” Almedha breaks a crust of dark bread in half. Years of supping with Soren have taught Titania not to mistake the pieces for a sign that Almedha has eaten. On similar instinct she examines Almedha’s face for loose skin, getting distracted by the sharpness of her cheekbones, which assuredly outmatches that of any of the children Titania’s looked after.

“It would do you good to get out,” Titania says. “Your strength is already formidable; your skill could be as well, with regular practice.”

Almedha cracks one of the bread halves with her nail, drawing a crusty line down the center. “You are a busybody, aren’t you?”

“I’m aware your life is none of my business, but you’re under my company’s roof. The responsibility thus falls to me to…”

The tray clatters against the floor, replaced by Almedha’s knee as she grabs Titania’s shirt. “Enough with the formalities. If you insist upon remaining a mercenary, at least have the gall of one.”

Titania balks. For enough days she has seen only a mother’s mourning, begetting sober tenderness. Her jaw sets, and she loosens her shoulders, prepared to defend herself. “Are you not the one who just called me a busybody? I apologize, but I can’t brook your judgment upon my occupation any further.”

“It’s about time,” Almedha says, her lips twisting up. “Here I worried you’d mother me to death.” She tugs the fabric until it’s taut against the back of Titania’s neck, prompting Titania to reach for Almedha’s wrist and open her mouth in warning. Before she can utter more than a strangled sound, Almedha’s mouth crushes up against hers.

There’s nothing tender about the way Almedha kisses. Her fangs knock against teeth and drag over sensitive skin, leaving little separation between pleasure and pain. The burn forming at Titania’s surface slices deeper. She abandons the struggle to unlatch Almedha’s claws in favor of gripping her waist to keep them both from toppling off, which Almedha takes as an invitation, slinging a leg around her such that they’re locked in place when Titania pulls back with a gasp.

“Such a proper knight, so unfulfilled.” Almedha’s free hand traces the muscles of Titania’s arm, her purr grating more than any scream. “What is it you’re after?”

“That…that is what I should be asking you,” Titania says, remaining still to maintain some semblance of control. If Almedha shoots the question back, she won’t know how to answer. Memories of fumbling with other trainees have been swallowed by years of living in chaste devotion. It suits her plenty, or it did, but there is a childish voice telling her that those she stayed beside have not stayed beside her. She has not felt the force of the hunger now present in Almedha’s eyes, more gripping than the leering gazes of drunken Beorc men. “Though this is hardly…”

“If you say proper,” Almedha says, tapping a bicep, “I shall grow very bored.”

“In that case, it’s only polite for a host to entertain a guest.” Bolstered by the teasing, Titania presses a smile to Almedha’s temple, bending to reach the skin under her pointed ear and the crook of her neck. Almedha’s fingers beg for pressure at her throat, but Titania simply glides until Almedha yanks her back against her mouth.

When they part, something is caught in Titania’s gums. As spitting is one habit she never picked up after knighthood, she tilts away to discreetly pick it out. So thin and translucent as to blend in with the rings of her finger, it baffles her for a moment until she realizes it’s the wing of a bug.

“Why, you look as green as my hair, dear,” Almedha says with a grin. “Has one who’s seen as much carnage as you not strengthened your stomach?”

It’s true, claw and steel and the judgment of the Goddess should have prepared her for something so benign, and she laughs at her own timidity. The laugh peters out as she spots the fallen tray, circled by a puddle of broth. Titania’s chest squeezes. She pushes Almedha’s thigh away. “The mess—Soren would, I must…”

The name makes Almedha’s smile fall. She lets Titania disentangle from her and stand, crouching with her back toward Almedha to hide her shaking hands as she cleans. By the time she’s done, the broth has already left a stain.


	23. A Warm Mug of Spirits (Titania/Almedha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 6 of Former Knight and Former Queen
> 
> For the "Poems by Sappho" prompt table, from the following poem:
> 
> _you came and I was crazy for you_   
>  _and you cooled my mind that burned with longing_

The morning after their encounter, Titania finds Almedha in the mess hall, sitting with a straight back and sipping from a mug. She does not look up toward Titania, whose heartbeat spikes even as she chastises herself. Seeing Almedha upright and out of her—of Soren’s room should be a relief. She’s even dressed in the simple red cloak Titania provided to replace the gown Almedha has not yet let her mend. It was just what Titania had on hand, but the color suits her, even if the sleeves drape off her shoulders and upper arms where she lacks Titania’s build.  
  
Titania’s halfway through wondering if that actually improves the look when Mist enters with a glass of flowers. “Look, I found some that match your clothes,” she says, setting them on the table beside a bowl of dried fruit. Almedha murmurs a thank you, and Mist beams, straightening and folding her hands in front of her.  
  
“Can…can I get you anything else?”  
  
Almedha shakes her head in dismissal, which Mist looks ready to interpret as an invitation to sit until she spots Titania glued to the wall. Her gaze slides between them. She waves before slipping away.  
  
_That girl,_ Titania thinks. _She becomes more covert every year._ Almedha doesn’t seem to acknowledge the interaction, examining a berry she rolls between her thumb and forefinger. For a second Titania expects it to fly away. Instead Almedha eats it not by popping it into her mouth, but by sticking the slightly forked tip of a tongue out to roll it in.  
  
“I didn’t take you for a wallflower,” Almedha says after smacking her lips. “I can hear your steps from the other side of the fort, you know.”  
  
Abashed, Titania steps forward. “Forgive my rudeness in not greeting you—and my impropriety in… that is…” The words she’d prepared while lying on the floor the night before drain in a jumble. Almedha waves at the chair opposite her, more a host somehow than Titania, who can only take the offering. She rearranges the flowers and bowl, if only to feel more in control of the space. The solidness of the clay helps clear her head.  
  
“I’m usually more assertive than this,” she confides. _More confident._ “Many…complications have passed.”  
  
“You seemed plenty assertive to me,” Almedha says smoothly.  
  
“I’m usually more restrained than _that_ ,” Titania says.  
  
“Which is it, then?”  
  
Realizing she has no idea how to answer, Titania bites her cheek. “You’re looking well this morning,” she says instead. “I’m glad to see it.”  
  
“The young girl is an eager servant.”  
  
“She’s not a servant. Mist is Greil’s daughter, and a full member of the company. You might learn something of swordplay from her.”  
  
“Oh? Interesting.” Her voice suggests that it isn’t, if only because her focus seems to be elsewhere. A more serene place than in recent days, at least. Titania tries to calm her own irritation. Inhaling to that end, she realizes that what she assumed to be tea is actually spirits.  
  
Almedha catches her face and proffers the cup. “Have a drink. Your heart has been pitter-pattering ever since you walked in.”  
  
“Thank you, but it’s a bit early.” Almedha shrugs, the fabric bunching up under one ear and slipping off her collar beneath the other. Titania shifts her gaze to the covered side, becoming intrigued instead by the ear’s point, not hidden by knots as usual. The implication of Almedha’s words hits her. Knowing she has amazing hearing is different than such personal proof.  
  
“I already sent your subordinates to their tasks,” Almedha says. In her distraction, it takes a second for Titania to react.  
  
“You… Wait, you what?”  
  
Almedha flicks a hand. “It was all written down. I just passed it along. Your company has always kept careful records, for such a small operation.”  
  
The _always_ tells Titania that it wasn’t the day’s plans Almedha was after. “Well… Thank you, I suppose. Though there’s no need for you to do my job.”  
  
“Nonsense,” Almedha says, the quirk of a brow telling the rest. Titania’s hands fight each other on the table, then under it. If she seems so indisposed to her regular duties, she can’t let this continue—she has to convey that firmly, finally.  
  
Almedha breathes a long sigh, the sort that would curl and hang in the air if it were frosty. “I’ve never had such a peaceful next morning,” she says in a tone that stops Titania’s resolution in her tracks. She lets her hands slow, knitting loosely together in her lap.  
  
“Which is it, then?” Titania cannot resist teasing. “Do you abhor the quiet life or not?”  
  
For the first time that day Almedha pierces her gaze. “A morning is quite different from a life. I intend to have my excitement before nightfall, if not after.”  
  
As if she’d eaten the whole bowl, the moisture is sucked from Titania’s mouth. “In that case,” she says, “I think I will accept a drink before midday after all.”


	24. Stone and Snow (Tanith/Sigrun)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Poems by Sappho" prompt table, from the following poem:
> 
>  
> 
> _may you sleep on the breast of your delicate friend_

Tanith never knew that the crunch of snow beneath boots could be so loud. During the Mad King’s War, the march through Daein filled her ears with howling winds, chattering teeth, and hundreds of pairs of legs sloshing through slush the soldiers in front of them had already stamped down. Grumbles turned to screams and then moans. The roar of laguz drowned out whinnying pegasii and horses. In the towns, people hurried to shut their gates, shouting curses.  
  
Only statues populate the town the Maiden of Dawn’s group has chosen to rest in for the night. As Tanith returns from her scouting she peers with disapproval at a pair of sentries caught mid-slouch, and she runs an absent hand over the head of a girl who’d been chasing her brother, tiny icicles forming under the pigtail whipping across her face.  
  
If Tanith weren’t so exhausted, she’d linger over her reports and meetings just to hear voices. As it is she is works efficiently before retiring to the inn, averting her eyes from the innkeeper frozen at the desk. Her empress has already gone to bed in the nicest room the small town had to offer. Tanith stops to press an ear to the door, listening for snores. The room is silent. The guard stationed there politely looks away.  
  
Their accursed enemy bears the power of warp, Tanith remembers. Her heart thumps, unaccompanied by anything but the creak of a floorboard as she cracks open the door and peaks in. Ever one step ahead, Sigrun already sits at Sanaki’s bedside. She looks up sharply, her eyes relaxing when they meet Tanith’s, and presses a finger to her lips. Tanith enters, shutting the door behind her silently.  
  
Sanaki’s head rests in Sigrun’s lap, either asleep or feigning it considering she does not react when Tanith approaches. The bed is plain, covered in blankets only because half of the inn’s bedding was apportioned to keeping the empress warm. It’s slipped off her shoulders in her current position, Sigrun’s hand stroking for warmth in its place in a manner much like Tanith did for the statue. Tanith’s chest clenches. But for the spear at the bedside and the equipment in the corner, they could have been any mother and child.  
  
The middle of the apocalypse is not the time for a game of pretend. The three’s breathing provides little to cover up Tanith’s fancies to the contrary, a warm spot among a silent winter. Decisive as always, Sigrun beckons, and Tanith follows her captain’s summons to kneel beside the bed. Her hand joins Sigrun’s, fingers lacing with hers and with Sanaki’s hair. Sanaki releases a small sigh.  
  
The impropriety of the scene occurs to Tanith, but it hardly seems to matter, with only stone and snow to judge them. Her heart thumps on, her mind full of plans for the next day’s march and potential ambushes as she rests her head on Sigrun’s knee. Beside her, Sanaki finally starts to snore.


	25. Growing Pains (Tanith/Sigrun)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Shakespeare prompt table quote "They had not skill enough your worth to sing" - Sonnet 106

After Sanaki’s plate returns full to the kitchens, Sigrun ushers her and Tanith into a private chamber. It used to be common for Sanaki to refuse food, usually while waving it around as a blasphemy to the culinary arts. Since the war she will eat anything—and a busy, growing woman is always hungry.  
  
Sigrun bends her knee before Sanaki, who’s settled onto a cushion. Tanith stands closer to the door, prepared to apprehend anyone who interrupts.  
  
“It’s Serenes, isn’t it?” Sigrun asks.  
  
Recently, as a diplomatic gesture, they were invited to the forest for a ritual of renewal. Sigrun beamed with pride at the invitation, and at every step since then; Tanith exchanged proud nods with Tibarn and remained on her guard. But Sanaki appeared too solemn for her years, and back at her palace, she still hasn’t lightened.  
  
Perhaps they should have taken more care. Song revived the forest itself, but it can’t heal the scars. Sanaki shakes her head when Sigrun suggests these things. Her bangs no longer whip around her face as they did when she was younger, her movements less measured. “Of course these matters will always weigh heavily,” Sanaki says. “But I’m afraid my dourness is pettier.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
The way Sanaki chews her lip hasn’t changed. Knowing how Sigrun would chastise her, Tanith resists a poorly timed smile. “Even if I now understand, I still wish I had inherited their song. It’s beautiful, and it has so much power. If I had it, I could just…” Sanaki waves her hands around, her sleeves billowing. “Fix everything.”  
  
Even with their power, quite a bit needs fixing—another thought Tanith withholds. There’s a reason Sigrun is the one stroking Sanaki’s hair. She’s always had a heron’s voice, though when she takes to the skies, she is as ferocious as any hawk.  
  
“We all work with our own gifts,” Sigrun says. “I could not be prouder of what you’ve done with yours.”  
  
“You two are my gifts,” Sanaki says. She gazes up at Tanith, her mouth a little semicircle, and this time Tanith smiles.


	26. Molting (Leanne/Elincia)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Poems by Sappho" prompt table, from the following poem:
> 
> _their heart grew cold_   
>  _they let their wings down_

One of Leanne’s feathers floats to the floor. Elincia’s knees are already bent; they drop now to the stone as she picks up the feather, cradling it in her palms. Grief emanates from her, confusing Leanne. She molts regularly enough, feathers that are of little value to anyone except Begnion’s underground market.

“Forgive me,” Elincia says. Her fingertips had grazed the inner bend of Leanne’s wing when the loose feather dislodged. “I just wanted to touch one. They look so soft…”

“Will fallen anyway,” Leanne assures her—then, realizing that her poor grasp of modern tenses might confuse the message, she leans forward and curls a wing around Elincia. “Touch.”

Still kneeling, Elincia rests her head against Leanne’s stomach instead. She chuckles a little, though Leanne feels no mirth from her. “I’m leaning on you more and more, it seems,” Elincia says. “After fighting a goddess, mopping up the aftermath of a rebellion shouldn’t wear so, should it?”

She hides it well enough during the day—to all who don’t have Leanne’s powers, at least—but Leanne still isn’t surprised by Elincia’s exhaustion. Many of the friends who’ve helped her are elsewhere, watching over corners of Crimea that she can rarely attend to or aiding countries that beg Elincia’s help with recovering from their more recent wars. To Leanne, one or three years makes little difference. Crimea is as wounded as anyone.

She understands Elincia’s heart more than she understands politics, however, and perhaps that’s why in the evenings Elincia can undo her bun and tuck herself under Leanne’s chin. For all Elincia works, she never seems to feel in these moments that the day’s efforts were enough. After untangling herself from Leanne she’ll try to return to her desk while Leanne steers her to bed, a clash of stubborn wills that only ends when one or more of them tires.

Tonight, Elincia does not rise. “My heart can only bend in so many directions,” she admits. “I know other countries suffer, but my people need my strength.”

Leanne knows by now that she’s not expected to answer. In her language, she sings a short verse:

_Let down your wings;_  
_You’ve flown far enough._

To translate she wraps herself around Elincia, who responds by curling into her, raising a tentative hand to stroke her feathers.


	27. Survival (Jill/Mist)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Poems by Sappho" prompt table, from the following poem:
> 
> _spangled is_   
>  _the earth with her crowns_

A patch of flowers blooms in otherwise barren earth. If Mist hadn’t crouched beside them, Jill wouldn’t have noticed, but once she does the white cluster stands out like the inverse of a wyvern against a milky sky.   
  
Jill’s boots make sucking noises in the mud. Upon closer look she sees the moisture clinging to the petals, which sag under the weight, stems valiantly holding them up. She has the foolish urge to say _see, Daein has resilience, it’s not all destruction and rot_ —but pointing to weeds as her nation’s saving grace makes it look all the more wretched. Besides, she wouldn’t be giving credit where it’s due. She’s not surprised that Mist found the only bit of life in this wet desert.  
  
Mist’s sigh doesn’t form a cloud as it did that morning. “It would be cruel to pick some when there are so few, wouldn’t it?”  
  
Just the evening before, Jill cleaned blood off of her spear. “I guess.”  
  
“I wish I could put a pitcher of them on the mess table. Or give a bouquet to Titania—oh! Or make chains for us to wear. You’d look so pretty.”  
  
Seconds after her lament, she’s smiling at the idea. Jill will never understand how easily Mist releases moods. She can’t understand what would be so pretty about a flower chain over her scuffed breastplate, either, but again Mist has moved on, toddling at the effort to walk while her feet sink into the slop. Jill follows, watching dutifully in case Mist slips.  
  
“There’s a lake near the fort,” Mist says in the tone she uses when thinking of Crimea. It reminds Jill, somehow, of the herons’ song. “The most beautiful wildflowers grow around it. They look kind of like those, but with wider petals, and there’s a whole blanket of them. I bet there’s a thousand.”  
  
“Wow,” is all Jill can say. While she tries to picture a thousand flowers, she bumps into Mist, who’s halted. Her gloved fingers reach back in search of Jill’s. While Jill may hesitate about other aspects of their relationship, her grip on Mist is always firm, solidness being one of the few things she knows she can provide.  
  
“I wanted to see them again, when spring came,” Mist says.   
  
Jill stands silent, the fatalism and the slight wobble in Mist’s voice soaking in like the mud must through her cloth boots, until her offer of solidness seems as solitary and futile as a flower in a wintry land.  
  
“You will,” Jill says, her old stubbornness returning in place of Mist’s optimism. Mist squeezes her fingers and continues on through the muck.


	28. Tangled (Titania/Heather)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Shakespeare prompt table quote "Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold" - As you like it
> 
> Also for Measured.

Unsavory dealings needn’t happen in alleyways. The forest provides enough cover—at least, to the untrained eye. Titania spots a flash of yellow between the branches of a tree and halts by its roots. At her beckoning, Heather drops down, her smooth leap ruined when her cape catches on a branch.   
  
“Oh, horse dung!” Keeping her face smooth, Titania reaches to untangle the fabric. In an instant Heather’s scowl transforms into a wide smile.  
  
“What a pleasure, Dame Titania,” she says as if they’d come across each other in a tearoom. It doesn’t surprise Titania that someone with Heather’s abilities found out about her past, but it stings to be addressed as anything but a mercenary when treating with thieves.  
  
“A pleasure indeed,” Titania says. “You brought what I asked?”  
  
“All business, huh? I can’t say I mind that in a woman.” Titania stares at her evenly, and Heather’s smile drops as she pulls folded paper from her belt. Titania pockets it without unfolding it. “Aren’t you going to check it?”  
  
“No. I trust everything I asked for is there. I’m sure we’ll be having another word if it isn’t.”  
  
Heather tosses her head, leaves falling from her hair. “Oh, it’s there. It just worries me to see you trusting in thieves. What if some man swindled you?”  
  
“I can’t imagine anyone would take this job for their own gain. We can’t afford to pay you as much as the risk involved in information gathering warrants.”  
  
It takes all of Titania’s willpower not to twitch her hand toward the paper. Guiltily she thinks of Mist, who she left picking wildflowers by the lake, none the wiser about Titania’s dealings. The forest almost sheltered them from everything that’s happened since Mist’s youth, but Mist’s hair draped in a loose ponytail over her back, and she hummed an unfamiliar tune.  
  
Even Greil had dealings with worse than thieves. Neither he nor Ike had thought to tell Titania.  
  
“I just wanted to help out,” Heather says. “Honest!” Titania strokes the top of her braid, which weighs down her neck. “I have to admit, I hadn’t expected one in your line of work to be so charitable.”  
  
“You wound me, Dame Titania. You won’t find a more charitable lady around! Unless you take a gander at your reflection, of course.”  
  
“My apologies. As you suggested, some skepticism is healthy.” These days, she has to provide her own share of it. When she first hired Heather to gather information, she doubted Heather would resist some thieving on the job, considering the low fee. She doesn’t ask if that’s the case.  
  
Business has distracted her, but she realizes now that she’s still standing close from when she freed Heather’s cape, practically cornering her as Heather’s back is pressed against the trunk. Heather doesn’t seem to mind, considering she’s folded her arms behind her head like this is a natural place to lounge. It makes her hair splay against the bark and accentuates the muscles of her arms. _What would it be like to spar against her?_  
  
The forest seems as humid as those in Gallia. Titania steps back, ashamed at her lack of decorum, even as an employer in these circumstances.  
  
Heather drops her arms and leans forward. “If you must know, I mostly took this job because I like helping beautiful ladies. Especially lady knights.”  
  
“You were mistaken,” Titania says, keeping her gaze steady despite her hot cheeks. “I’m only a mercenary.”  
  
“Even better. You can be less…fussy about your affairs.”  
  
Her hand creeps around Titania’s back. Titania moves in an instant, grabbing Heather’s arms and turning her around, forcing them behind her.  
  
“If you’re after anything else, I suggest you say so,” Titania says. “Otherwise, I think our business is complete.”  
  
As she checks Heather’s hands, she feels something soft spread against her neck. Realization strikes before she can whirl: Heather has palmed the band that held Titania’s braid.  
  
“I take it back,” Heather says. “You’re the fussiest. I wasn’t going to keep it.”  
  
Releasing Heather, Titania takes the band and pockets it alongside the paper, which she’d momentarily forgotten. Her cheeks haven’t cooled. “I apologize for my roughness,” she says while Heather rubs her wrists. “But without knowing your motives, I can only be cautious.”  
  
“If you must know, Ma’s sick,” Heather mumbles. “Medicine doesn’t buy itself. You might be a cheapskate, but you’re not as disgusting as other employers. I thought we could arrange a steadier deal.”  
  
Thinking of Rhys, Titania softens. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”  
  
“Of course you didn’t. Who cares where a rat’s pay goes?”  
  
“Still, I feel I’ve taken advantage of you. If I’d known you needed the money…” Come to think of it, the jewel she’d seen at Heather’s throat at their last meeting is absent, probably already sold.  
  
“The deal is done. I won’t be pitied now.”  
  
“Understood. I’m sure I’ll need you for another job. In the meantime, will you at least join us for supper? Mist is quite the cook.”  
  
Heather tosses her head, her smile returning as she looks over her shoulder. “I’d never turn down food with a pair of lovely gals.”  
  
On the walk back, Heather moves silently, making Titania aware of the leaves crunching beneath her own feet. She wonders if the retreat would be a better place for a sick mother than wherever Heather lives now, but that’s a topic to be broached later.  
  
Having run out of distractions, she takes out the paper and unfolds it with a slight shake in her hands. Her eyes devour its contents. Immediately her shoulders relax, though she rereads the report like a plant trying to suck nutrients from dry soil.  
  
“You know,” Heather says, startling her, “if a guy slips off, and you need a spy to locate him…”  
  
“I know.” Titania pockets the paper again, aware Heather won’t forget her lapse in composure. “I just had to know they were safe.”  
  
“Now that that’s settled, why don’t you worry about your own safety? You did invite a thief into your home.”  
  
With the source of her tension done, it’s Titania’s turn for a teasing smile. “A thief who’s after pretty women and money for medicine—and will be assured of both if she doesn’t tarnish our trust.”  
  
Despite the promise, Heather scowls. “Right on the mark, Dame Titania. Have you thought about a second career switch?”  
  
“I’m satisfied where I am, thanks,” Titania says, collecting herself before stepping into the clearing.  
  
She only realizes once the sun is warming her face that her braid is still coming undone behind her.


	29. Clash (Say'ri/Tiki)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the theme 'The Five Senses.'

In her dreams all she hears are screams. She feels claws scratching against stone and digging into flesh, and she smells blood. She cannot eat meat in daytime, as the way it shreds under her fangs and the heady smell are too reminiscent. Instead she bites into a crisp apple, feeling the juice dribbles a wet trail—not too thick—down her chin. Say’ri fusses with a cloth, and Tiki giggles, batting it away.

“Feeling it drip is half the fun,” she says, though the softness of the cloth is welcome. Say’ri’s cheeks redden slightly from what Tiki assumes is a memory. She holds up the apple, comparing its darker color and rubbing her thumb against the slightly waxy skin. The apples’ skins were rougher before her longest sleep, and they didn’t hold a shine.

“I suppose that if no one is nearby, it’s no cause for dismay.” Say’ri refolds the cloth and tucks it under her belt. Tiki smiles. There’ve been a few dramatic scenes, but most of Say’ri’s concessions have come quietly, little changes in their daily routine.

They’re sitting indoors, as autumn has come far enough along to give the air teeth. Tiki’s body can withstand far harsher, but she’s watched the tips of Say’ri’s ears go pink in the slightest chill and knows her companion would never complain. She would follow Tiki up the highest peak of Anri’s Way if Tiki wanted to go. Tiki would much rather guide her to a hearth and a mug of warm cider.

Tiki nibbles at the soft bit of apple around the core. It’s tarter than the one she fed Say’ri earlier in the season, though the cider she nabs from Say’ri holds just enough sweetness. Say’ri clears her throat. “If you’d like a mug, I’d be happy to supply one.”

Ever the diplomat—until the situation calls for steel. The edges of Tiki’s smile curl. She sets the mug down on the opposite side of where Say’ri’s kneeling and scoots closer, the mat rubbing against her shins. She’s been sitting with her knees spread—Say’ri used to complain when she did so—and they’re tucked together now around her fingers as she leans in close enough to feel hair tickle her shoulder. “I think I’m rather more obliged to share.”

And there is something raw about Say’ri’s mouth, which Tiki has still not learned is sensitive enough for her fangs to puncture, the metallic taste mixing with fall fruit—and she decides to put off ‘til later pondering how flesh can provide such different sensations.


	30. Ripple (Say'ri/Tiki)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Poems by Sappho" prompt table, from the following poem:
> 
> _stand to face me beloved_   
>  _and open out the grace of your eyes_

The gravel embeds itself in Say’ri’s knees. It’s an annoyance, if she’s honest; since the war she’s sought permanence, even in the shape of a scar, and the tiny studs in her skin will soon spring back. Besides, the mild soreness is nothing compared to what she’s used to, and she’s not aiming for numbness, not yet.

It thus burns when Tiki’s fingers touch feather-light against her chin, propping it up with no more than a suggestion. How very her. Her wingspan when transformed stretches wide, yet she flies more gracefully than a pegasus. Now Tiki’s chin tilts, and her eyes, flecked with gold from the ceremonial candles, are only slightly lidded, altogether giving off the appearance of a cat considering a toy. When she wets her lips, the light glints off her fangs, and a bead of sweat runs down Say’ri’s back.

“Milady,” she whispers, “may I ask what’s on your mind?”

Tiki taps a finger from her free hand against her chin, her long nail ending in a tip below the corner of her mouth. “You’re so still. I’m rather used to you rushing about, far less serene than you’d like anyone to believe.”

Say’ri’s cheeks warm, contrasting with the night air and the cobbles outside the temple. “I have sat vigil many long nights at my lady’s side. I know how to be as a pond, if needed.” A weak protest; Tiki seems only amused. 

“I am no sleeping pond now, am I? Rise. Face me. Vigils are for another night.”

Say’ri’s joints groan more at unhinging than at kneeling, but they do so as if lifted by string, and she looks down into those eyes with hopes to discern her next order from their dancing, the ache in her knees all but forgotten.


	31. Out of Orbit (Say'ri/Tiki)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Poems by Sappho" prompt table, from the following poem:
> 
> _stars around the beautiful moon_   
>  _hide back their luminous form_   
>  _whenever all full she shines_   
>  _on the earth_   
>  _silvery_

With the war done, Say’ri is not above admiring the women attending the ball. Sumia’s simple lavender dress suits her quite elegantly, two left feet or not. Miriel looks sharper than usual in her breeches and tunic, making quite a pair alongside the armored Sully, who’s been relegated to the wall after nearly breaking Maribelle’s nose with her neckpiece. Say’ri overhears Miriel tell her that the spot is ideal for observation, anyway. Maribelle, for her part, sparkles in a dozen different places, and as the evening passes it seems half of her jewelry passes to Lissa and the rest to Olivia and other girls, yet Maribelle loses none of her shine.

Like Miriel, Say’ri stays off to the side where she can take in all of this. She would like to join in the dancing, as it’s not so different from swordplay, with the only casualties being Cordelia’s crushed toes. However, the dancing in Ylisse’s castle is by and large not a style she’s familiar with, so she’s forced into the role of diplomatic guest, waiting for her own lady to appear.

Say’ri smoothes out her kimono, wishing Ylissean dresses better hid the angles of her body so that she could look less out of place. It was Tiki who requested they enter separately. She had work to do as the Voice before she could engage in revelry, and she did not want Say’ri to miss out, especially given the event’s underlying political importance. For a foreign princess to be tardy would be seen as a snub. So Say’ri has been talking politely to dignitaries who stare a bit too long all evening, the wordplay its own sort of dance, and trying not to think about how she would have liked to instead get in a bit of sword practice, learned the dance steps, and then swept in with Tiki on her arm.

She’s sampling a fruity dark wine that Lucina offered her when Tiki enters. Others are attending her, and normally Say’ri would have appraised them, but she’s not seen Tiki in this ensemble, and she can only stare. Tiki’s collar fans out like silvery feathers. Fixed at her waist with a red sash, the dress trails down the backs of her legs to kiss the ground. Its material is as a pearl: white or silvery until the light catches it, making it appear pink or blue. Her shoulders are bare, untouched by the hair that’s pinned up in an Ylissean style of braids. She clasps her hands in front of her, the red accents in her white gloves matching her painted lips.

All of the women on the floor seem to dull in comparison, through no fault of their own. Demanding attention next to a goddess is a hopeless feat. 

Tiki greets the Ylissean royals briefly before making a beeline for Say’ri, her boots clacking against the stone. They exchange halting pleasantries, and then Tiki holds out a hand and steals Say’ri’s line. 

Say’ri’s tongue is heavy. All will look at her, with a divine being in her arms. This would be just as well in Chon’sin, or perhaps any training grounds, but… 

“My lady,” she whispers, “the steps here—I don’t…”

Tiki smiles, her earbobs swaying as she shakes her head. “Nor do I. But it looks fun, doesn’t it?”

And with the war done, showing Tiki a good time is as high a motivation as any, so soon Tiki is soaking in all the light on the dance floor, and Say’ri basks in the glow.


	32. Five Times Tiki Surprised Say’ri (And One Time She Didn’t) (Say'ri/Tiki)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Phrenotobe and inspired by their headcanons. Most of Tiki's actions are based loosely on lizard behavior.
> 
> For the theme 'Five Things.'

1\.   
  
Luckily Say’ri is wearing a top when Tiki darts into her tent, though nothing furnishes her arms or hides the shape of her torso. It’s further luck that Say’ri recognizes that flash of green and red, as an intruder at this hour would earn swift punishment indeed. Before Say’ri can inquire, Tiki tucks herself into such a slight ball behind Say’ri’s equipment that even when Say’ri bends a knee, it’s impossible not to hover over her, height aside. Cold seeps into Say’ri’s bones.  
  
“Milady, prithee tell me, what ails you? A night terror, or an enemy my sword can halt?”  
  
“Neither, at least not without causing a stir.” Tiki’s knees muffle her voice, but it doesn’t sound terribly shaken, given her position. “Anna seems to think I agreed to some promotional event when I assuredly did not, so I’m making myself scarce.”  
  
The cold eases out, to be replaced by a burn. “Be at ease. Anyone who harasses my lady will meet swift punishment, fatal or not.”  
  
“No, I’d rather lay low. We’ll march soon enough. Still, I do not understand. I bobbed my head most vigorously. Can she not take ‘no’ for an answer?”  
  
“Aye, most merchants can’t. Yet…” Say’ri grapples to adjust her armor, only to meet her bare bicep. Her burn shifts from her chest to her neck. “Forgive me, but I may be misconstruing a Ylissean word. Is bobbing not an up-and-down motion?”  
  
“It is. It is a very aggressive gesture. Why?”  
  
The heat slides just under her eyelids, and she knows the march will be spent shifting through memories for accidental transgressions. “Ah, no reason.”  
  
2\.   
  
Say’ri wears the blood spattered across her front like a token, albeit one bitterly won. The gash over her elbow is nothing compared to her numbness, insulating her heart from the panic threatening to squash it. She vaults over the rock behind which her lady’s body lies, caring nothing for propriety as she props Tiki’s limp neck against her knee.   
  
“My lady—Tiki, please, awaken! I can’t lose—again, so soon… Please, I swear by my honor I’ll indulge anything that doesn’t impose upon you, I—”  
  
Tiki hums. Say’ri’s breath catches in her throat, bubbling up.   
  
“Splendid showing,” Tiki says, “though playing dead would have been easier if you hadn’t engaged the enemy right there.” Her tongue unfurls as she yawns, poking out from her lazy grin. “But I am gladdened to know you care, Say’ri.”  
  
Say’ri can only sputter, unable to chastise her lady for playing when the alternative is infinitely more dire.  
  
3\.   
  
Not that Say’ri isn’t enthused for a good throw-down now and then, and not that it wasn’t…engaging, but no matter how she sweat a bit despite playing only jury, she finds herself perplexed.   
  
“If I’d been transformed, I would have smoked her,” Tiki grumbles. Averting her eyes, Say’ri hands her a cloth to wipe her neck.  
  
“Not literally, I hope. Still, for this form, you performed admirably. Yet, I have to ask, as you seem…troubled; the East-Khan makes a noble opponent indeed, but why did you not ask me to represent you?”  
  
“Silly Say’ri,” Tiki chirps, “do you not know how to compete for a mate?”  
  
So caught off guard is Say’ri that for eloquence’s sake, she cuts the conversation short and goes to discreetly ask Miriel about lizard-mating habits, ultimately making a mental note to warn the next woman who touches her muscles to beware of push-up contests.  
  
4\.   
  
The air over the bog sticks to her, one reminder of Chon’sin for which Say’ri was not homesick. She swats the bugs swarming around her with a fan, more irate than she should have been at a relatively harmless foe, as her sword is useless against such small targets. She turns to Tiki, planning to offer her shelter from the elements, but Tiki seems unperturbed, her own buzzing blending in with that of the insects.   
  
A fly bounces against Tiki’s chin, seeming to be drawn by the promise of moisture. She tilts her neck to let it land, then darts her tongue out to lap it up as a cat with milk, licking her lips.  
  
“It’s a wonderful day for a picnic,” she says with a sigh, and Say’ri tries not to think too hard about where that mouth has recently found its way.  
  
5\.   
  
The way Tiki’s limbs curl as she arches her back off the ground is even more feline than usual, but it’s not Say’ri’s first thought when the movement makes the scales on her belly flash like light across a drawn sword.  
  
“Showing mates underbellies is a matter of pride,” Tiki explains. She’s finally gleaned, after a discussion with Miriel, that Say’ri is befuddled by her ways; Say’ri’s finally put into awkward, halting words that it makes Tiki all the more enchanting. As Tiki’s done her part by clarifying, Say’ri does hers, leaning forward to gently kiss the scales as she might fingertips. Tiki clicks, a sound Say’ri has finally come to expect.  
  
6\.   
  
The war’s been over for more than a year, yet the pains of its losses haunt Say’ri. In the evening she wanders the palace walls as if searching for something, finally giving up to lie in the grass outside. Tiki joins her as twilight fades into dark, laying sideways across Say’ri’s stomach and raising an idle hand to stroke Say’ri’s bang. Say’ri’s gaze stays fixed upon the moon as she reaches down in kind.  
  
“Love you, Say’ri,” Tiki purrs. Say’ri’s eyes don’t flutter, her mouth stretching in a withheld yawn.  
  
“Aye—in that much, at least, I’m blessed.”


	33. Furtive (Say'ri/Tiki)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Poems by Sappho" prompt table, from the following poem:
> 
> _Some men say an army of horse and some men say an army on foot_   
>  _and some men say an army of ships is the most beautiful thing_   
>  _on the black earth. But I say it is_   
>  _what you love._

Tiki lies curled just enough aloft that to Say’ri’s tired eyes she appears to be floating. Only fire and stars light the campsite, and inside the tent, Say’ri must kneel with her lantern to see the source of her lady’s flight: a small mound of stones piled under Tiki’s abdomen. She’s studied enough lore to recognize a hoard. Paintings depict dragons sitting on mountains of swords and silver, each coin smaller than a scale. T’would be difficult to harm an enemy with such tiny blades, Say’ri thinks as she bends lower over her sleeping lady.

Tiki half-yawns, her fangs concealed. After enough apologies, Say’ri has learned this means Tiki was already awake.

“Tis late enough that you should slumber,” Say’ri says. “I only wanted to ensure nothing distressed you.”

“I’m fine. You need rest more than I.”

Ignoring the hint, Say’ri furtively studies Tiki’s collection. Nothing about the stones seems precious; they wouldn’t be, if Tiki gathered them on the march. Yet a second glance reveals that no two are alike. Her curiosity wars with discretion. Tales of hoards usually end with attempted thieves being swallowed whole, idle trespassers escaping with gouged eyes.

She did not lead a rebellion without practicing calculated risk. “Perhaps you’d sleep more deeply on smoother ground.”

Tiki cracks open a lid, her iris half-yellow. Without rolling off she wriggles just enough to flip onto her back, her knees bent, and pulls her nightshirt up over her abdomen. Say’ri flinches away.

Tiki’s toes tap the ground, a sure demand for attention. When Say’ri looks, her light shines on a set of scales like built-in chainmail over Tiki’s ribs.

“Ah,” she breathes. Tiki tugs the shirt back down.

“Did that answer your question?”

In truth, Say’ri yearns to know just what attracts a goddess to little more than pebbles the soldiers trod on without thought. But calculating risks means retreating with eyes intact, so she leaves that mystery for another eve, or at least her midnight fancies.


	34. Bare Necessities (Say'ri/Tiki)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Poems by Sappho" prompt table, from the following poem:
> 
> _...among mortal women, know this_   
>  _...from every care_   
>  _...you could release me_

In her second millennia, Tiki hears her own laugh for the first time. Childhood giggles, or a recent, statelier variation are another matter—it took little to delight her in her youth, and responding to lords’ banter is a matter of courtesy. But it turns out that when she bursts of mirth she rolls back and curls up, clutching a shaking chest, and emits such a shriek that she’s glad nobody else is nearby to investigate.

When Say’ri first came to Tiki, presenting a canvas along with a formal speech about how she knew Tiki grieved the loss of her mortal friends…and she knew—she of all people knew—she could not release Tiki of that pain, but she hoped that this small token would at least give it shape, that it might aid in her mourning…Tiki hadn’t known what to expect. She nodded along, waiting with her hands folded until Say’ri threw the sheet off of the canvas. The hands flew to her mouth then, smothering a gasp.

The painting portrayed a smaller Tiki—Say’ri imagined her with more abundant hair and a redder outfit, but it was unmistakably her—sitting at Marth’s knee, watching him tell a tale with rapt attention. No patron could deny Say’ri’s skill: who else could weave a story from Marth’s lips simply by painting them open? That she never met the man made it all the more impressive.

Except. Except, that was when Tiki noticed, and the tears forming in her eyes changed meaning, and she fell back.

When she can finally speak, it’s in the same inhuman shriek.

“Say’ri, who in Naga’s name told you that Mar-Mar didn’t wear pants?”

“’Tis an uncommon portrayal, but a historian I spoke with claimed it to be true.” Say’ri fiddles with her paintbrush, which she brought in place of her sword. “They seemed an untrustworthy sort, now that I think on it, but they claimed to have made your acquaintance. Have I erred?”

Tiki sobers, both because Say’ri resembles a puppy awaiting punishment and because she knows exactly which acquaintance Say’ri means. “No, it’s perfect. Never have I received such a heartfelt gift, and I thank you.”

Though still a portrait of bemusement, Say’ri bows. “I aim to please. And I’m honored you think so highly of it,” she adds, looking thoughtful. “Between other duties, I was afraid my life as a painter was on its last legs.”

The wordplay sets off another shriek from Tiki, finally summoning a cleric who leaves scratching her head. Once all the excitement dies down, Tiki retires to rest, hoping to uncover lighter memories that the weight of her grieving has pushed down.

If nothing else, at least she can anticipate some earnest mortal a couple thousand years down the line sympathizing with her mourning of an ancient dynast named Say’ri, and deciding to paint Tiki a portrait of her without pants.


	35. Could Have (Say'ri/Tiki)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Poems by Sappho" prompt table, from the following poem:
> 
> _someone will remember us_   
>  _I say_   
>  _even in another time_

Star clusters stretch in a band falling behind the distant mountains. One of Say’ri’s hands rests on the grass, delicate enough not to disrupt the cherry blossoms dotting the ground. The other is woven into the hair of the woman curled on her lap, purring. The scene could have been frozen in a wall scroll at the palace. Could have.

If Say’ri were to peer around the branches obscuring the peak of the night sky, she could find the Wings of Love constellation Ylisseans say immortalizes their Hero-King’s adoration for his Queen. Chon’sin sees the same wing with sharper edges, but it depicts only a lone manakete.

Say’ri’s not one to act with hesitation. Were she unwilling to take a woman or a dragon as a lover, she would scarcely have entertained the thought. She certainly won’t cast aside the gifts Tiki has given her out of fear of forging a new path. Yet if a warrior like her found such gentleness, she can’t imagine it is new. What happened, then, to the others, the ones that twinkled before an inky night blotted them out? And while her rebellion would be remembered, would this?

Tiki’s nature answers that question bitterly enough. The thought sparks an idea she usually disregards, not wanting to dig up phantoms from Tiki’s past when she herself looks to the future. Carefully Say’ri lifts her hand from Tiki’s hair. Her breath loses its purr; she’s awake.

“My—Tiki, I’ve a question, if I may impose.”

“Always. What is it?”

The fingers in the grass scratch at the dirt, digging small tracks. “The love between the Hero-King and Queen Caeda is oft fabled,” she starts. Tiki’s body freezes in the way it does whenever her old friends are mentioned, but it would be crueler to cause the reaction without purpose, so Say’ri continues. “I wondered if any from that time held love for those of different stations, or different origins, or…really, those only the same in gender.”

“Of course. Archanea may have been sparsely populated compared to modern Ylisse, but its emperor and empress had people to rule.”

It’s a terse answer, for her, and Say’ri knows she must realize why the question was asked. Nevertheless the night feels dream-like enough to erase propriety. “May I ask if you were acquainted with such people?”

After tensing again, Tiki sighs. “My relations were limited, but…yes. I am not sure if I should…”

“I’ll not force you, but if there’s something you would voice, I will listen.” Say’ri struggles to sound sympathetic rather than lean into the offer like a gossiping courtier.

“Ah, what’s the harm now? The Hero-King was beloved by many, not only the wife he chose. One of them was…well, my sibling, you could say.” Her tone hints at an eye-roll. Say’ri doesn’t wonder at that, too floored by the domino of epiphanies.

“I shall not pry further,” she says. “However, allow me to rephrase my question: did you know of any such people who found happiness?”

Tiki tilts her head to slip a hand under it, cupping Say’ri’s knee. “If it’s happiness you lack, you need only ask it of me.” The purr has returned, making Say’ri’s throat bob.

“My own affairs are well settled,” she says. “I only wondered if anyone else found this.”

There is only so much feeling that can be put into one word, even if Say’ri is used to one word bearing more than she can hold. This she demonstrates by returning her palm to the curve of Tiki’s head.

“Ah,” Tiki says. “Then, I know not if they were happy—they knew similar tragedy as you—but I do know that after abdicating the throne, the warrior Minerva settled into a peaceful life, and one of her pegasus knights later flew to return to her side.”

“Princess Minerva, commander of the Whitewings?” Say’ri breathes. Though not of Chon’sin, she’s a figure Say’ri has often looked to for inspiration on the battlefield. She hadn’t thought they might have something in common off of it.

“Yes. She was a kind woman. Sometimes she’d let me ride with her when my wings ached.”

Between Tiki’s growth and the loss of most of ancient Macedon’s portraits, Say’ri can’t conjure the image. She instead wonders if Minerva thought she and her knight had parted for good after the wars, and if she ever lay with her knight under a tree, and if she hoped somebody would remember that she did.

“I suppose I thought…someone such as me wouldn’t have this,” Say’ri says, her voice quiet and throaty. Tiki yawns.

“Well, that’s just poppycock.” Say’ri has a stray memory of her entertaining a friendship with Maribelle. Still that settles the matter well enough, so she lets it be.

But she thinks, when she next has free time and daylight to work by, she’ll paint stars in the path of a wing, and connect the dots in two different shapes.


	36. Mixed Blessings (Say'ri/Tiki)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Poems by Sappho" prompt table, from the following poem:
> 
> _and on the eyes_   
>  _black sleep of night_

Tiki’s feet stumble over the flat campground as if she’s forgotten how to walk without claws. While Say’ri often catches Sumia by the arm regardless of terrain, her lady is another matter—silly as she can sometimes be, her grace in flight surpasses any swan, and she’s long been used to balancing without a tail. When Tiki is righted and turns to her, Say’ri understands.  
  
It is encouraging, in a way, to see bags under Tiki’s eyes. It means the nightmares could not visit her, at least not for long. However, when Say’ri releases her elbow, it wobbles by her hovering hand. A dreamless night does no good if Tiki trips onto a spear.  
  
“My lady, allow me to escort you for the day,” Say’ri says in lieu of a lecture. Tiki yawns.  
  
“Of course. Were you not going to?”  
  
The answer to that, is of course, no—so Say’ri supposes it is a moot point, and takes blessings where they come.


	37. Grace (Say'ri/Tiki)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Poems by Sappho" prompt table, from the following poem:
> 
> _He seems to me equal to gods that man_   
>  _whoever he is who opposite you_   
>  _sits and listens close_   
>  _to your sweet speaking_
> 
> (Full poem [here](http://fsf-mod.dreamwidth.org/1396.html).)

The tapestry hangs across a wall in the Voice’s personal chambers. An anonymous benefactor donated it that morning, and Say’ri doesn’t know where or how it was preserved; it must be thousands of years old, for it depicts a banquet hosted by the Hero-King. Her inner historian wants to study the food, clothing, and servants, but she’s focused for now on the child seated upon a stack of cushions, her hair colored with what must have once been brighter green dye. A few stitches of thread curve her mouth upward.  
  
Say’ri wonders what it would have been like to be around that table, perhaps as one of the bards putting a smile on that child’s face, but she would not have given up the chance to meet the woman to know.  
  
Hovering inches away from the tapestry, her fingers follow the edge of the table before stopping over a figure with pinkish hair. At a glance they remind her of Cordelia, but their jewelry, if not their manner, implies status. “And who is this?”  
  
Tiki’s face scrunches. “That’s Xaney. My babysitter, or sibling, or something.”  
  
“A divine dragon, then?”  
  
“A divine nuisance. But yes…” Tiki sighs. “And no.”  
  
Were it not for the way Tiki’s golden bangles shine, Say’ri would mull over the matter’s complexity. As it is, her thoughts are simple and sluggish, as they often are these days. She can never tell if the aura outlining Tiki is a sign of her divinity or only a trick of the light on her jewelry, or even the warmth Say’ri feels for her taking near-tangible shape.  
  
“I suppose I’m being harsh,” Tiki says with another sigh. “It’s just been so long.”  
  
Say’ri’s hand comes to rest on Tiki’s wrist, only gold separating their skin. “Say the word, and I’ll banish the image.”  
  
“Oh, Say’ri, you could just offer to put it away.”  
  
“Aye, I did.”  
  
A smile graces Tiki’s lips. It’s one of the smaller, wryer ones, the ones that Say’ri will sometimes stretch a gag just to invoke. “No, I’m not quite ready.”  
  
She returns to studying the tapestry, her face again pensive, and Say’ri reluctantly looks away from her to do the same.


	38. Midnight Daydreams (Say'ri/Tiki)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Poems by Sappho" prompt table, from the following poem:
> 
> _when all night long_   
>  _it pulls them down_

“If you could be anything besides a princess, what would you be?”  
  
Only Tiki’s glowing yellow eyes allow Say’ri to make out Tiki’s head rested between her arms. “I assume queen and dynast are off the table?”  
  
Tiki wriggles over to elbow her as best she can without changing positions, nearly hitting Say’ri in the chin. “You know what I mean.”  
  
Say’ri chews her lip as if in deep thought, but she only says, “A knight, would that I could serve you with all the more focus.”  
  
Another elbowing, this time to the side of her jaw. A ridged outline like an embedded scale clips her skin, smarting more than she’ll admit. “You _know_ what I mean.”  
  
The chewing this time is not affected. It’s not as though she never dreamt, but she stored those dreams in neat compartments. Besides, in recent years they stopped resembling far-away clouds, instead taking the shape of the woman beside her now.   
  
“I’ve wished I could pursue art with more vigor,” Say’ri admits, “But I would tire of standing still. Perhaps a wanderer, bound to no land. I would paint and map each new place and compete in their competitions. Swimming, arm wrestling…”  
  
She stops herself there. More time to paint and swim is one thing, but a release from her loyalties is another. Her recent travels were not in such light circumstances.  
  
“What of you?”   
  
Tiki is silent for long enough that Say’ri assumes she’s asleep. It’s just as well; she’s already kept Tiki awake past the moon’s ascension. During the war, Say’ri would have insisted they both rest. Even if she tossed and turned while Tiki dreamt ill dreams, it was better than letting a soldier skewer their weary bodies. Self-preservation was mandatory for Chon’sin’s hope, not to mention the Voice that was the world’s hope, and the Tiki that was hers.  
  
Duties never end, but an hour of sleep is no longer life or death.  
  
Tiki’s continued silence convinces Say’ri she’s awake after all. In sleep, her wheezing resembles a mouse’s squeak.  
  
“Was my question tactless?” Say’ri asks.  
  
“If it was, I asked it first. I’m just thinking. Do you mean would I be a human, or a dragon without divinity, or a taguel…or am I to consider an occupation without knowing that?”  
  
The childish urge to say _you_ _know what I mean_ beckons, but in truth Say’ri hadn’t considered it herself. “Ah. I had not meant to create complications.”  
  
Yawning, Tiki wedges her elbow behind Say’ri’s neck. “Traveling sounds lovely,” she finally says. “I would go with you and befriend every person in the world.”  
  
“Then you’d better stay a dragon, if you’d have the time to get to them all.”  
  
With Say’ri’s head pinning her down, Tiki’s third nudging is ineffective.


	39. Sittin' Pretty (Sully/Miriel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Poems by Sappho" prompt table, from the following poem:
> 
> _here now_   
>  _tender Graces_   
>  _and Muses with beautiful hair_

It’s not until Sully’s muscles ache and sweat pools under her shirt that she lies back in the grass. Miriel worked her and worked her hard, but when she sat down for a break she just had to do sets of push-ups and sit-ups first, and—well, maybe she would have done the same if Miriel was watching, or maybe she wouldn’t have, but either way she’s more than done.  
  
Miriel perches on a stump nearby holding a ledger in her lap, scratching away with a quill. Sully eyes her neat curtains of hair, hanging symmetrical as always from either side of her hat. It’s messier in battle, matted with sweat and tossed about by magic, but on a day when only her pen hand is exercised it stays in place. Sully runs a hand through her own greasy spikes and watches Miriel’s face for rare movement under the brim.  
  
“You’re still takin’ notes?” Sully asks, rolling onto her side. Miriel can watch the clouds go by and discuss weather patterns, but Sully needs more to occupy her.  
  
“Silence, please. I must record the data while it’s fresh.”  
  
Sully knows by now that silence means silence, and she has enough respect for Miriel’s work not to compromise it. She’s always curious about the results when she’s the subject, anyway. She stretches out while her body complains, a good sort of burn, until Miriel sets down the quill.  
  
“Thank you,” she says. “Your cooperation is much appreciated. I may call upon you for further testing.”  
  
“Sure. I’ll flex for you anytime.”  
  
Miriel raises an eyebrow. “Mere flexing is not likely to yield much information.” Sully curls up an arm as if in protest. When Miriel tilts her head to follow it, that curtain of hair moves as one drape, and Sully sits up with a grunt, pulling herself over to Miriel’s side. In one motion she pulls the hat from Miriel’s head and, for lack of anything else to do with it, puts it on her own.  
  
“Was that necessary? It was keeping the sun from my eyes.” The sun is instead hitting Miriel’s hair, and while Sully’s not the poetic sort she thinks that a bit of it’s woven in, gold and amber threads in that sheet.  
  
“You’re sittin’ too pretty there.” Sully’s fingers begin to muss Miriel’s hair, separating it into crooked locks and stitching a line in Miriel’s brow.  
  
“My conclusion was that those final few exercises put you at your limit, at least with no fight-or-flight conditions in play.” So that’s why she’d kept writing after Sully was just showing off. “If that’s not the case, I’ll need to revisit my hypothesis.”  
  
“I’m just gettin’ started,” Sully says with a grin before pulling Miriel down into the dirt.


	40. Courting Convention (Sully/Miriel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Poems by Sappho" prompt table, from the following poem:
> 
>  
> 
> _not one girl I think_  
>  _who looks on the light of the sun_  
>  _will ever_  
>  _have wisdom_  
>  _like this_

Sully peeled off what felt like the hundredth dress she’d tried and tossed it onto the ottoman, breathing a sigh halfway to a groan. Contrary to what Sumia thought, taking after her brothers didn’t mean Sully wanted to wear the same tunic and breeches they would to a ball, if they’d even had a chance to go to one. The fabric was too restricting and the ornaments too stuffy, and she’d be fine with a skirt if it meant giving her legs a chance to breathe. The tops simply didn’t sit right on her bulk. She didn’t fill out the lower necklines, corsets were out of the question, and she’d look laughable in the poofy sleeves that could accommodate her broad shoulders. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she looked again through her options. They all came with too many frills, and her hair wasn’t long enough to hold all the pins and combs that Sumia’s took to so well.  
  
The knock on the door came in three crisp, even raps. “Come in, babe,” Sully said. She didn’t turn to check if it was Miriel who entered.  
  
“You might confirm my identity before using such names.”  
  
“I might. Whaddya need, or are you here for an escort? I’ll be fussin’ around here for a while longer.” Too bad—Sully would like to be the one entering with Miriel on her arm.  
  
“Maribelle called for me. She claims your vulgar tongue has made it clear that you don’t want her generosity.”  
  
That wasn’t necessarily true, though Sully felt ready to snap again and thought it was just as well that such a strong personality wasn’t around for another go of that. “So she sent you? Are you good at this stuff?”  
  
“It’s not my area of expertise, but I believe I have a sharp enough sense to know what fits the person and occasion—provided I’m familiar with both.”  
  
Still busy rifling through the pile of dresses Maribelle had left behind, Sully hadn’t looked to see if Miriel was right. When she did, her mouth dropped.  
  
“It’s not conventional,” Miriel said after it was clear that Sully’s mouth wasn’t budging, “but I believe it suits me best, both in comfort and appearance.”  
  
And she was right, whether Sully would have guessed or not. She’d expected Miriel to enter in a gown. The breeches she wore instead were tighter than her usual loose pants, her boots sleeker, and her tunic more form-fitting, but the color scheme and feel were the same, black, gold, green, and unflappable.  
  
“Woah,” Sully said. “You really do know your stuff.”  
  
“A tailor advised me. I heard that you rejected their help?”  
  
“Uh…sorta. They were stressin’ me out.” As with Maribelle, Sully hadn’t meant to chase them away, but she didn’t need them poking at her with their pins and frowns.  
  
Crossing the room, Miriel examined the dresses, pointing out the pros and cons of each one. Sully grunted in response, her eyes too glued to Miriel’s form to consider anything she was recommending. She’d rejected menswear on the grounds that being masculine didn’t make her a man, but if Miriel wasn’t concerned with that, maybe it would be okay—though she couldn’t imagine it fitting her like that.  
  
Still, when she thought about trying on a dozen more outfits, her shoulders slumped. “Can’t I just go as I am?” she asked. Miriel turned to look her up and down, causing Sully to bring her shoulders back up. She dipped her chin. “Okay, so I don’t really mean in my skivvies.”  
  
“There’s technically no rule against it, but people might perceive you as slovenly or as flaunting the event’s etiquette—or, if you wore that specifically, obscene.”  
  
“So…no different than normal.”  
  
“True enough. It all depends whether or not you, as you would put it, ‘give a damn.’” Miriel was still examining Sully—awkward as she could be, she’d never been shy, to Sully’s delight. Miriel perched on the ottoman, which she’d already cleared of the clothing Sully had tossed on it along with a lecture about putting things away properly. “Though, that gives me an interesting idea—why not wear your armor?”  
  
“My…armor?”  
  
“Yes. It would limit your movement and comfort, but it seems that all of your other options would do the same.”  
  
“Huh. You’ve got a point.” Since she hadn’t been called on to serve as a guard, Sully hadn’t thought of that, but it was so perfect and obvious that she could have kissed her (and would have, if Miriel wouldn’t have torched her for messing up her makeup while in the castle). She grinned instead, her interest in her problem lost now that she’d come up with something. “Or, we could ditch and like, go somewhere, because you look amazing in that.”  
  
“That might be pleasant, but it’s an important event and this outfit is not meant to take roughhousing,” Miriel said smoothly, standing. She must have known that if she stayed much longer, Sully wasn’t going to let her leave looking as pristine as she entered.  
  
“Too bad. And hey…“ Sully rubbed her neck. “Thanks. Y’know, I was wonderin’, does all this wisdom of yours really come from books?”  
  
“Of course not. Books are records of what others have observed. Much of it comes from my own observation. Well, I’m pleased to have been of service, but if you’ll excuse me.”  
  
Miriel bent her knees in a slight curtsy and left. After throwing on the clothes she’d entered in, Sully followed suit, jogging to collect her armor so that she could put it on before Miriel’s punctuality led her to find another escort.


	41. Kindling Water (Sully/Miriel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Shakespeare prompt table quote "Now is the winter of our discontent" - Richard III
> 
> Also for Faye and Max.

Ordinarily, training in the height of summer would be unbearable—at least, to anyone unable to take the heat like Sully can. Today, as she goes through her sets, bursts of wind chill her bare arms. They’ve been blowing from the direction of an old shed, and she’s too focused to look a gift horse in the mouth.   
  
A crash and a thud send her running, her lance still in hand. She doesn’t know what to expect, but it isn’t Miriel sitting in the middle of a pile of rubble: rocks and metal, some broken, some intact. Sully slips on a patch of ice and curses in surprise.  
  
“What in blazes happened, Miri?”  
  
“Certainly not blazes. Mind your footing, please.” Despite the mess, Miriel is unruffled, her smooth face and hair only broken up by frost on her lashes. She doesn’t look up from the notes she’s scribbling.   
  
“So this is a test, not some kind of ice bandit attack?”   
  
“Indeed. I cannot yet go into detail, but in sum, one of water’s many curious properties is that it expands when frozen. It is because of this that water inside cracked rock can break it apart over time.”  
  
Sully finally lets the tip of her lance drop as she steps around the wreckage. Standing behind Miriel, she squints at her notes, which even other mages see as chicken scratch. “Plain old water can defeat rocks, huh?”  
  
“To use a combat metaphor, yes, though I don’t know that water can claim victory.”  
  
“Looks like battle training to me,” Sully says, waving at the rubble.  
  
“I am experimenting with the use of ice in combat. I’ve hypothesized it can break apart enemy equipment, or even forts.”  
  
“Damn.” Her free elbow rests on Miriel’s shoulder. Even now it surprises her how pointy it feels under the robes. “Hey, if you figure it out a way to strip the enemy’s defenses, I could charge in and make quick work of ‘em.”  
  
“Precisely.”   
  
“So if you’re gonna test how it works on armor, you need a dummy to wear it, right?”  
  
“I’d hoped you’d say that, although I’m only beginning. It’s too dangerous to use a human subject at this juncture.”  
  
“Doesn’t usually stop you from testing your hypo-whatsits.”  
  
“Doesn’t it?” Miriel’s face remains smooth, but her shoulders tense. Sully wraps her arm around them.  
  
“What’s up, Miri?”  
  
Miriel continues writing until the page is full, then takes a fresh page and begins doodling in the margins. By now Sully knows to wait. “This experiment has me pondering water’s many states.”   
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“For instance… Ice is sharp, frigid, and readily avoided. Some hole up in their abodes until it thaws.”  
  
“Well, yeah, it’s…” Sully pauses to decode Miriel speak and bites her tongue. “Huh.”  
  
Sully hadn’t really thought of Miriel as cold. Their relationship started after Miriel used water to turn a flame into an inferno, after all, and it hadn’t looked so different from Miriel on the battlefield. Somehow the flames she casts never burn the fringes of her hair, but it’s always a mess afterward, clumps sticking every which way and matting with sweat and blood to her skin. Washing it is the first thing she does once off duty.  
  
She always washes off Sully, too, with hands as warm as the reassurance she once gave. But Sully doesn’t know how to say any of this without being corny, and she instead thinks about how Miriel showed her her own uses.   
  
“In winter, ice can really mess a gal up, but you know…” Unable to scratch her neck, Sully scrapes the floor with her lance. “Ah, look, I can’t keep the metaphor talk going, but so what if you’re cold? Softies can’t plan battles. They’re not famous scholars. And I’d be buried under more than rubble if you didn’t know how to keep your cool on the field.”   
  
Miriel’s doodles have looped around the outside of her sheet, closing a trail of sporadic squiggles with more orderly lines. She sets down her quill and leans against Sully. “I see the merit in what you’re saying.”  
  
“Besides, I’ll be damned if everyone out working in that heat wouldn’t like a chunk of ice.”  
  
Miriel’s lips quirk along with her eyebrow. “Were you planning to distribute me?”  
  
“Nah,” Sully says, giving her a squeeze. “They’ll have to figure out how great you are for themselves.”


	42. A Fresh Poison Each Week (Beruka/Camilla)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the theme 'Poison.'

The cut runs an inch and a half down Beruka’s jaw. It’s scabbing over, already on its way to becoming a scar, and it’s small enough that she skipped the medical tent in favor of sneaking into the mess hall before it could fill with chatter. She didn’t count on Camilla finding her, or on her lady fussing over a nick from a shuriken, one hand tilting Beruka’s chin and the other clasping her own cheek.

“I’ve had far worse.”

“But your adorable face,” Camilla says with a cluck of her tongue. “I suppose it will make you look even tougher, but…”

There’s nothing adorable about Beruka, nor anything tough about failing to dodge, but she’s given up on arguing such points. Having held still for long enough, she flinches away from Camilla’s thumb and forefinger, as their softness makes her notice the hard bench. A puff of air blows against her nose, and Camilla’s bang bobs. “That color… Was it poisoned?”

“Yes.” Beruka inspects her wrist guard, which took the greater scratch. She washed it before letting Camilla near.

“We need a healer to at least look at it, then! Even if it’s nothing deadly…”

“I’m immune to this one.”

“Another one? Have you truly been exposed to so many poisons?”

“Yes. I may as well be a toxin myself, at this point.”

One could imagine that if they were sliced open, Beruka would bleed poison and Camilla would bleed wine…but she’s spilled enough blood, and it all looks the same. Camilla is still bent to face level, watching her. It’s unsettling, knowing Camilla’s not scrutinizing her as a threat, wondering what exactly she’s looking for when she stares. As she tilts her head, her bang bends. It always covers the side of the face that mirrors Beruka’s new wound.

“If you are, then I must be immune,” Camilla says with a smile. Beruka ducks her head again.

“You’ve been exposed enough. Though some poisons are slow-acting.”

“Is that the only way to build immunity?”

“Some animals have developed immunizations to the venom of creatures they hunt.”

“Oh, my—are you suggesting I’m preying on you?”

If she should wonder, she doesn’t. “No. I’m stating a fact about wildlife.” The predators Beruka know of kill like she does—quickly, without pretext of kindness. Parasites attach to a host, sucking the life from them, but if a parasite has latched onto Beruka it did so many years ago, and Camilla has been prying it away.

“Are other animals immune?” Camilla asks.

“Most seem immune to their own species’ venom.”

“It’s that one, then.”

Though Camilla looks satisfied, Beruka can’t imagine why. “What is?”

Camilla strokes a finger across Beruka’s jaw, making her cut sting. “Why I’m immune to you, darling.”

The hair rises on the back of Beruka’s neck, though she holds Camilla’s gaze. She barely considers them to be the same species. Beruka herself has never related to other humans, and Camilla has seemed otherworldly since the first time Beruka saw her call down lightning from a clear sky—or maybe since the day they met, when Camilla cornered her with a set jaw and gentle eyes.

“We are not much alike,” Beruka says. “You laugh, cry, love… I only kill.”

Camilla purses her lips. “Beruka, you still…”

“My loyalties and purpose may have changed, but that much has not.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Beruka waits for an explanation. Even idle chitchat loses her; this vagueness certainly does. Camilla sighs and settles beside her on the bench, her bang covering her expression until she reaches up to lift it over her ear. A set of scars spans the skin from her eye down past her cheek. Were some of the lines not less faded than others, Beruka would think they were claw marks.

“Do you really still think me less bloodstained than you? Less abandoned?” Camilla’s usual lilt has flattened, gone hoarse. Beruka’s own throat feels strangely scratchy.

“I may have been presumptuous. I’m…sorry.”

Camilla replaces the bang, and her voice lightens. “I became immune to many things long ago, my dear.”

Unsure what to say to that, Beruka can only wonder what toxins infected her mistress—and can only imagine touching Camilla’s wounds as Camilla touched hers.


	43. The Only Heaven I'll Be Sent To (Beruka/Camilla)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt 'Weather.'

The air feels muggy on Beruka’s triangle of exposed skin. The first stretch of flight provided a pleasant breeze, though the wind has sharpened on and off without warning, like the careless crack of a whip. Now the group is flying under thickening clouds that darken in the distance, black as their armor along the horizon.

Beruka’s wyvern tosses its head, clearly wary of the coming storm. She tugs on the reins to steady it. She’s finally getting used to the wyvern’s habits, no longer assuming it will drop her onto the rocks below every time it gives warning. Owning the wyvern is another matter. The room and board made her suspicious enough, and the axe and armor convinced her that Camilla was trying to make Beruka indebted to her, to force her into permanent service as penance for Beruka’s attempt on her life. It won’t work; Beruka’s services have always been as impermanent as her homes, just a part of day-to-day survival.

The wyvern baffled her. Suddenly Beruka was responsible for a rare, breathing creature.

She’d never been asked to keep something alive.

But the weeks have added up, and the routines of training, feeding, and riding have helped her avoid thinking about her situation. Usually while patrolling the only things on her mind are control of her mount and thorough surveillance, but today she’s distracted by Camilla flying ahead of her. There’s no reason for the princess to join a routine patrol, though she told Beruka she loves flight. Perhaps it has something to do with Nohr being below ground, or the way Camilla strokes her wyvern’s neck at every opportunity. Then again, it doesn’t matter what Camilla loves or why. What matters is the mission Beruka has been given: to report on any anomalies in the area, and to engage any enemy she’s ordered to engage.

There’s no movement on the ground, which doesn’t have enough foliage to hide anyone. Beruka’s attention turns ahead. Rumbling has joined the sound of flapping wings, but Camilla flies onward, and Beruka’s orders are to follow.

At first, Beruka doesn’t notice the hazy sky or the distant sound of rain hitting stone. She realizes it’s because it stays in the distance—it’s always a set amount of leagues away from the group, as if they’re flying within some invisible shield. The rain would cut through the mugginess and, perhaps, allow the plants below a fighting chance, but given her wyvern’s aversion to water it’s just as well.

The first lightning doesn’t strike in the backdrop where the clouds are dark smoke. It strikes a tail’s-width to the right of Camilla, making Beruka jerk her wyvern. The other, older wyvern riders are giving Camilla a wide berth, otherwise flying on as if nothing is unusual, and it finally hits Beruka that’s she serving a madwoman. Nothing accounts for the pounding of Beruka’s heart, which her wyvern at least seems to understand, its growl matching the sky’s rumble.

A second strike, this time on Camilla’s left. Beruka breaks out of her spell, spurring her wyvern forward. She wasn’t ordered to approach, but protecting Camilla is her primary duty, and her lady is going to get herself killed. She pulls up beside Camilla so that her voice will carry. Living in the slums and attacking from the shadows taught her to remain quiet. Now her throat feels unnaturally hoarse as she shouts that they need to retreat.

Illuminated by a flash, Camilla shakes her bangs out of her eye, her hair seeming to float around the horns of her crown, and tilts her face with a serene smile. “You came for a front-row seat, darling?”

Beruka’s protest that patrolling isn’t a show dies in her throat. The sky’s next assault strikes from directly overhead—but a length above their heads it splits, curving around an imaginary sphere like cracks in a glass orb. The sky flashes Camilla’s shade of purple, making Beruka feel trapped beneath, beside, within her. The woman who, just that morning, adjusted Beruka’s headband with excruciatingly soft fingers extends those same hands toward the charcoal sky and calls down lightning.

Even growing up on the streets, Beruka heard about the Dragon Veins the royal family was fabled to use. She assumed it was a wives’ tale to justify their legitimacy. As it turns out, Camilla is no madwoman—she’s not even entirely human.

As ungrounded as the moment is, Beruka thinks about the stables she’ll settle her wyvern into, and the bedroom to which she’ll return, her rations waiting on a tray, and she realizes there’s no turning back.

She shivers, though nothing has cut the hot and humid air.


	44. Crooning (Beruka/Camilla)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Shakespeare prompt table quote "You have witchcraft in your lips" - _Henry V_
> 
> Also for Phrenotobe's birthday.

“Hold her while I tidy up, dear.”

Even with the title of _wife_ replacing _retainer_ , Beruka can’t protest the order. Nevertheless her lips purse as Camilla’s hands, cloaked in sharp and elegant gloves, pass over the baby. She rearranges Beruka’s arms into the correct position before disappearing with a flounce of curls. 

Barely daring to breathe, Beruka stands as still as on a stakeout. For several movements in and out of that small stomach, the baby is otherwise still, too. Then she rotates her head against Beruka’s elbow, stretching a foot and the opposite arm. Beruka’s thin layman clothes cushion nothing.

Hesitantly she lifts her palm to the side of the baby’s face, marveling at the softness of her ear. The baby’s tiny hand wraps around Beruka’s thumb, brown skin hiding the knuckle, as if it hasn’t pressed against windpipes and dropped pinches of poison into nobles’ drinks. Dark eyes open, large and round and penetrating. Beruka has never cared for eye contact, but she returns the stare, transfixed.

The spell is broken when the baby’s smooth face scrunches and releases a wail. Beruka tenses, which only seems to increase the wailing. How does such a loud noise come from such a tiny being? Did the tears forming at the baby’s eyes seriously leak from hers once, or was she empty even then?

As she’s wondering what to do, Camilla reappears with a clean face and her hair tied in a bun out of the baby’s reach. Beruka tries to find the words to explain that she’s broken this child like she breaks everything else, but Camilla whisks her away, rocking her against her shoulder. Her crooning resembles her spell casting. Those chants are in another language, as these assurances might as well be—whispers that shake Beruka to her bone.

After only a few moments the baby nestles silently into Camilla’s collar. Beruka squints, trying to make out the telltale aura of Camilla’s sorcery, but Camilla only casts her a smile.


	45. An Offered Hand (Kagero/Hinoka) (Conquest spoilers)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after Conquest and contains spoilers for it.
> 
> For the theme 'Queen.'

For the third time that morning, Kagero centers the circlet behind Hinoka’s head. “Does it not fit?” Hinoka asks. Her top half is still, but the resettling of her leg betrays her. Kagero almost nudges it back in place before remembering herself.  
  
“It fits, but you must keep your back straight. Easy as it is to bend, you are our strength now.”  
  
To her credit, Hinoka doesn’t complain, though it takes visible strain for her to straighten. She has a habit of hunching forward, like she’s atop her mount, ready to spring into the thick of battle. Her battles now are those of restraint, diplomacy, wisdom—traits Kagero keeps reminding them both that Ryoma spent years cultivating.   
  
Kagero dips to smooth an imaginary wrinkle in Hinoka’s robes, which make her look more like Reina than Mikoto. Recently, after days spent locked in her chambers, Sakura appeared in her mother’s priestess uniform. Before noon she’d guided a crying noble child to rest and stuffed her cheeks with more sweets than was proper, earning many people’s first smiles that season—but she is still very much a princess, just as Hinoka still cuts the figure of a dashing knight.  
  
Kagero releases such thoughts, just as she’s released most thoughts of late. She paints every morning before Hinoka rises, canvases streaked with black and red ink, the shapes unidentifiable to even her eye. Without looking at the dates, she can find the page of her diary from the night where she met up with Kaze in secret vigil; the day before that features a cat.  
  
In daylight, there’s no space for any of it. Kneeling, she recites Hinoka’s agenda for the day, then listens as Hinoka repeats it, halting to ask Kagero questions about the minutiae. Since the coronation Kagero’s life has been constant service. Setsuna trains their lady in archery while Azama offers his own sort of counsel, but Hinoka realized a queen needed steadier guidance, and perhaps—in her kindness—that Kagero needed someone to guide.   
  
With the agenda confirmed, there’s nothing else keeping them from leaving the queen’s chambers. Hinoka doesn’t move. This is her one moment of hesitation each day, a moment only Kagero sees. One where her lady is not a queen, but a princess, or a knight, or perhaps just a sister.  
  
Kagero offers her hand. She’s learning, even if it requires fighting her training, that Hinoka would rather escort someone than be escorted—just as Hinoka’s learning that Kagero neither needs nor wants her constant care.  
  
“The throne calls out for your warmth, milady.”  
  
Broken from her haze, Hinoka bids Kagero rise before striding from the room.


	46. Royal Matchmaking (Reina/Mikoto)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the theme 'Clue.'

When Reina entered Mikoto’s chambers, her lady’s handmaidens had just finished helping her into her evening kimono. Never one for domestic skills, Reina delegated such honors in exchange for extra training time. She’d just changed out of her own stained clothes, so the handmaidens bowed to her as they left without giving her frightful looks, as they did when she came straight from the field. Mikoto was kneeling as elegantly arranged as she’d been left, but with a somber bearing that dulled the glow the candlelight could have given her usual smile. She lifted her eyes when Reina knelt beside her.

“If it pleases you, my lady, I bring amusing news to brighten your evening.”

“As your presence already does, but what is it? I am not yet in the mood for a night of weeping.”

Reina was unable to keep her mouth from twitching as she recalled her encounter earlier that day: Orochi, who was quite sure Reina needed her fortune divined. She’d spent enough time working beside Orochi to know when the girl was working a genuine fortune and when her gestures were only theatrics. It wasn’t that the latter style was fake, per se, but there was always a grander design, with the gifts rarely divine in nature.

This time, after a fair amount of wiggly hand gestures and sprays of Mikoto’s favorite cherry blossom perfume, Orochi pronounced that it was fate that Reina reached her age without marrying. “People are gossiping,” she’d said with a slight drop from the lilt she used while ‘divining.’ “But fate works in peculiar ways. Your truest love has been nearby, yet out of reach, so the spirits kept your hand ready for when the time came.”

Orochi proceeded to drop clues as to whom she meant: a foreign folktale about an arrow that struck with love, a lifetime of duty, and as much plays on the word ‘sweet’ as could fit in one phrase. To her obvious frustration, Reina had politely thanked her for the advice before excusing herself to tend to her weapons, which she reminded Orochi were of greater help in brutalizing her enemies than a lover would be. By the end of Reina’s story, Mikoto was hiding a smile behind her hand.

“Such a perceptive child, and yet…” Mikoto sighed. “Still, if it can be guessed, then word may yet get out. If it’s going to cause trouble, we can make our relationship public. I am not ashamed of it, like hiding it makes it seem.”

Losing Lord Sumeragi and her child had caused Mikoto to turn to her retainer for comfort, as she didn’t want to burden her children and the public with her mourning—but nor did she want to complicate things for them with the new relationship. Besides, word had not gotten back to Reina’s parents that she’d become a knight at all, let alone a kinshi knight with the direct privilege of serving the queen. An announcement that she was Mikoto’s beloved would be a loaded pile of revelations.

“No, your decision stems from your wisdom and compassion,” Reina said. “I already have the honor of standing beside you each day, so we needn’t fret over the specifics.”

“Should we tell Orochi, at least?”

“You want to let her think her little scheme worked?”

“She’d think it was such fun. She’s been down ever since her last failed fortune telling.”

“Considerate as always. I’ll make sure that ‘shadow’ of hers isn’t skulking about when the time comes.”

That was what finally made Mikoto laugh—not the wind chime with which Reina associated her voice, but a snort she reserved for private. “Of course. I’m glad you know and care for her as I do. There is no substitute for a lost love and child, but…”

“Neither she nor I expects to be a substitution, but we are all the better for your affection,” Reina promised, laying a bandaged palm over Mikoto’s hand.


	47. Doom and Giggle (Kagero/Orochi)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the theme 'Mood.'

People often thought Kagero gloomy when nothing in particular was wrong. In contrast, it didn’t take her familiarity with Orochi to know when a problem had silenced that giggle. The lack of it always made the whole castle seem a little grimmer, not that Kagero needed a reason to support someone who had always been there for her.

This time, Orochi was sighing in her chambers, drumming her fingers on a table. Masks sat upon it beside her usual tools. Kagero set down her painting materials by the entrance. She’d planned to use the room for her break, as Orochi loved to watch her paint, but when something put Orochi in a mood she couldn’t be distracted until she’d let it go. On instinct Kagero crept to kneel beside Orochi, placing a hand on the woman’s neck. Orochi tensed up with a yelp.

“Kagero! Give some warning! Do you know how dreadful it makes me feel to not be able to sense you?”

“My apologies, but you are the one who always insists you will be able to tell when my shadow falls upon you.”

“I will. After enough practice. Which must improve something.” She looked glumly at the masks.

“I assume those are the actual source of your dread?”

“There’s nothing dreadful about them,” Orochi snapped.

“Ah. Someone responded negatively to them?” She could recognize Orochi’s work anywhere—it was as playful as hers was dark, and as misunderstood. The other ninjas had stopped trusting Kagero with disguises, as they thought her sense of style stood out more than her regular face. She’d come to Orochi for help with that problem at the time, though Orochi was the one person who understood her for a reason: the masks and accessories she crafted were similarly unique.

Kagero picked up an oni mask with glittering purple eye makeup, turning it to watch the makeup shimmer in the light. Who else would picture an oni painting its face? It was absurd and fanciful, but this was what she loved about Orochi.

“I spent so much time making these to help Oboro win over some kid, but they both laughed at them. Imagine! Mocking oni is a straight ticket to becoming possessed.”

“Is that a fortune, or…?”

“No, it just seems like it should be.” Orochi laid her head inside the crook of her elbow. “Nobody appreciates everything I do to liven this place up.”

If she were as sensitive as Orochi, that ‘nobody’ might have stung, but Kagero had spent a lifetime learning how to melt into the background. “What are you planning to with these?”

“There’s nothing to be done with them now.”

“In that case, I’ll borrow this one. I didn’t know what to paint today. It will make an interesting subject.”

She could almost see Orochi’s ears perking like those of a cat as she swiveled her head, spotting Kagero’s easel for the first time. “You want to do a portrait of my mask?”

“If that’s all right.”

“Of course! Seeing my work in your harsh lines…it’s going to be delightful.”

If not for Kagero’s training, Orochi’s hug would have knocked her off balance. As it was she kept the mask held up to the light, trying to find just the right angle to deepen the shadows in the masks crevices. After all these years, she’d probably never stop marveling that it was her own gloomy outlook that always brought back Orochi’s smile.


	48. From a Spark (Rinkah/Oboro)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the theme 'Journey.'
> 
> For Phrenotobe and inspired by their ideas.

The flames build from sparks to wavering curls to a decent campfire. When she’s sure the crackles and pops sound right, Rinkah gives thanks to the God of Fire and puts away her flint. Orochi’s been teaching her how to harness fire in battle with scrolls, but it feels sacrilegious, like her god hasn’t provided her with enough. That couldn’t be further from the truth: the deer she hunted and Oboro skinned roasts teasingly over the fire, releasing the aroma of smoked meat while dripping juices into the flames that make it hiss.   
  
While they wait, Oboro braids her hair to keep it back from the fire. Rinkah breaks the silence, something she’s been doing more as they travel. “I’m surprised you left your ribbons behind.”  
  
“Camping in the woods would have gotten my best clothes dirty.” She tugs at a stained patch of her red tunic, which is embroidered with a white design that betrays it was once her ‘best clothes.’ That morning Oboro adjusted it with needle and thread, as it no longer fit around her arm muscles. “At least I’ve gotten the hang of eating like you do. It’s actually fun.”  
  
“You’re getting better at digging in, but true Flame Tribe feasting isn’t about making a mess. It’s coming together around the fire to show we enjoy the fruits of everyone’s labors. You can’t experience it just by copying me.” That’s how she came to invite Oboro on this trip home in the first place, something she never would have done with another Hoshidan.  
  
“I guess that makes sense, but isn’t the Flame Tribe known for being independent?”  
  
“Among outsiders, yes. Our tribe must rely on each other. We don’t bond through chatter, but shared rituals like this.”  
  
“I think I understand. I have to admit, when I first approached you, I was just annoyed. I didn’t know we’d learn so much from each other.”  
  
“Yeah,” is all Rinkah can say. She tries to smile over the flames, but ducks her head to examine how the tinder is fairing instead. Not even hiking, eating, or the meditation Lord Ryoma taught her have calmed her since she and Oboro set out. She’s been too prideful—and maybe, _maybe_ , too nervous—to explain to Oboro that this journey carries more weight than a romp in the woods.  
  
“I’m surprised the tribe agreed to let me in, though. You’ve been preparing me for it this whole trip, but you keep saying outsiders aren’t allowed.”  
  
Rinkah chokes, punching her gut even though she has no food to swallow. “About that… They haven’t agreed yet. We’ll have to convince them.”  
  
“What?! You mean we could go all that way for nothing?”  
  
“I am the Chief’s daughter,” Rinkah growls. “They’ll let us in.” She pokes the fire with a stick. She can’t admit she isn’t sure. There’s still one man above her, after all. She hopes her service in Hoshido’s army earned her this favor, and hopes more deeply that her father is as impressed with Oboro as she is.   
  
“It still seems like an awful lot of trouble just so I can join your feast.”  
  
The stick bends in Rinkah’s hands. “It’s not just for that.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“Aren’t you the one who brags about having finesse? Figure it out.”   
  
“Uh, excuse me? I can’t read your mind, and I don’t brag.”   
  
With a crack, the stick breaks. She doesn’t want to fight with Oboro, but nerves make her run hot. “You bragged about your neat eating. And didn’t you act like a mind reader by assuming I needed you to teach me?”  
  
The fire’s harsh shadows heighten Oboro’s demonic face. “We were sharing—I thought we got past—you know what? Forgot it. Sorry to bother you.”   
  
She stands, startling Rinkah. She can’t just leave after the days of hiking, crossing streams, bridging their differences. The shame of it is too much.  
  
“Fine! Go. I didn’t want to marry you anyway.”  
  
It might be the first time a fire princess has made someone freeze.   
  
“I…huh? I was just going to let us chill out. And I would have…assumed that,” Oboro says slowly.  
  
Rinkah can handle the heat, but the way her face burns now is unbearable. Still, too much has built up for her not to keep charging forward.   
  
“I would have, too, but… Here I am. Here _we_ are. Look, I’m not one for cat-and-mouse games or gushing, so I might as well be frank. We still have a lot to learn from each other, and when I’m Chieftan I’ll need a skilled warrior at my side. But I can’t introduce just anyone to my tribe. I was going to ask my father’s permission when we got there, after I asked yours.”  
  
The deer has begun to char, Rinkah’s favorite smell, but she’s too nauseous to appreciate it. Oboro’s still standing, her hands at her hair and her clothes and then her sides. “Is that not your plan anymore?” she asks, her voice strangely soft.  
  
“You made your feelings on it clear. There’s no reason for me to embarrass myself further.”  
  
“Now you’re acting like you can read _my_ mind. You just surprised me.” Oboro sits carefully, as if unsure as if she has a place around the fire. Rinkah’s stomach drops.  
  
“If you have an answer, then give it.”  
  
“Sorry, but there’s too much at stake for me to rush into this. Can I…figure it out as we go?”  
  
“Of course,” Rinkah says. “I won’t press you until we’ve arrived.”  
  
“Thanks.” Oboro giggles, a sound Rinkah has never made but grew to like. “I didn’t know you admired me _that_ much. It’s kinda nice.” Before Rinkah can sputter a response, Oboro’s giggle turns into a groan. “Wait, you’re presenting me to your tribe, and I’ve got nothing decent to wear.”  
  
Rinkah laughs, feeling some of her tension break up. “As fine as your craftsmanship is, fire makes draping clothes and hair hazardous.”  
  
“Huh. I guess I’ll have more to get used to than I thought.”  
  
“I’ll be glad to help you out,” Rinkah says, hoping her voice conveys the fondness she can’t put into words. It’s not long before Oboro is giggling again, so she assumes it does.


	49. A Kiss of Rain (Rinkah/Oboro)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the theme 'Candy,' and for Phrenotobe.

A chime sounded when Rinkah slid open the shop door. It had made her jump the first time she’d visited, not that she’d admit it. In the forest, a deer’s slightest step couldn’t catch her off guard, but the Hoshidan capital had a way of attacking her with new noises. This one, at least, was no longer new. She knew without looking that the talisman Orochi attached to it made it look eerier than its high, delicate ring would suggest.  
  
From her position kneeling beside a patron, Oboro lifted a hand to remove the pins from her mouth. Spotting Rinkah, she stopped halfway, instead waving. Rinkah’s mind supplied Oboro’s welcome to a customer: _Please enter! I’ll be right with you!_  
  
As Rinkah removed her boots, unusually aware of the mud crusting them, she tried to tread lightly on the mats. She knew that when Oboro was working, nothing except that chime could disrupt her focus, but she still used a hunter’s stealth on her way to the corner—her corner, where she crouched while she waited for Oboro to be done. Oboro’s patron gave her an affronted glance, which Rinkah deflected by turning away. Her wet coat hung by the door, and she knew the Hoshidans that frequented Oboro’s shop found her garb strange, or strangely lacking. The longer Oboro tended single-mindedly to the one who gave her that look, the more foolish Rinkah felt for visiting early, uninvited, perhaps unwanted.  
  
_It’s not my fault I was sent out for ambassador duties in this weather._ She normally took care of that before visiting Oboro, but the royal family would have to wait until the sky cleared. She crossed her arms, hoping she looked proud rather than cold and sulky. Thanks to the God of Fire she was rarely cold, but the day’s rain made her long for the fur lining that Oboro had sewn into her coat. Rain threatened the sacred flame, and her tribe barely even had fields for it to water.  
  
Still avoiding the patron’s eye, she studied a kimono Oboro had hung next to a silk screen used for changing. Its black fabric and ominous purple swirls immediately brought to mind Kagero. Rinkah wouldn’t have been surprised if that was the patron—or, in Oboro’s generosity, gift recipient—for Oboro’s style had a way of masking itself, as she matched each piece to the person it was made to fit. As someone from a culture that prized individuality, Rinkah appreciated it.  
  
The first time Oboro made something for her, she was surprised Oboro took the time to study Flame Tribe styles and fabrics, creating a bulky pair of pants that suited Rinkah perfectly. She’d given up on creating a matching top with draping sleeves after Rinkah convinced her that it would catch aflame.  
  
While eavesdropping was below a future chieftain, the rain had dwindled to a patter on the roof, and there was no other sound to cover Oboro’s conversation. Her easy manner around her customers never ceased to amaze Rinkah. For someone who first approached Rinkah sternly, Oboro turned conversation into an art when it came to making her clients feel not only supplied, but welcome. Nobody Rinkah grew up around would have been able to do it, certainly not in the face of this client’s demanding tone, which was setting Rinkah’s teeth on edge.  
  
When the chime signaled the patron’s exit, Rinkah finally returned her eyes to Oboro. Regardless of her feelings toward water, the fluid swish of Oboro’s ponytail made Rinkah respect, at least for a moment, how a river could be graceful. Oboro’s smile inverted. “Sheesh! What makes him think I can have this done by next week? Does no one respect artisans anymore?”  
  
A fresh smile sprang to her face as she turned to Rinkah, who could recognize it as genuine, though the client likely wouldn’t have known the difference. Rinkah stood, planting her feet in time to keep her balance when Oboro sprang at her, all twirls and giggles sealed with a kiss on her cheek.  
  
“I wasn’t expecting you for days! And in the rain, too. I thought cats hated getting wet?”  
  
“I am no cat,” Rinkah said, trying and failing to scowl. “But those of us with fire in our veins hate it, too.”  
  
“Well, it’s no campfire, but I’ll light us some candles. That was my last client today, and Orochi gave me some new incense. Are you hungry?” The chatter fell out in bits as Oboro walked away and stretched, nothing like the smooth way she dealt with her client. Rinkah recognized the removal of Oboro’s mask, as it reminded her of the way she dropped her guard when it was the two of them.  
  
On the way to the backroom, Oboro stopped with an exclamation to dig through a drawer. She emerged with a pouch, swinging it triumphantly. “For you, of course!”  
  
Rinkah didn’t bother to hide a grin as she took it, though she peeked covertly inside. Each sweet sported a red and blue swirl—a touch Oboro no doubt couldn’t resist, but at least they were uniform. The first time she’d made sweets for Rinkah, each one had been a unique work of art. It made her hesitate to gobble them by the handful the way she liked, enough to stuff her cheeks with them and muffle her hums. She’d probably do that with these, though she’d eat the first few carefully, savoring them one at a time on her tongue.  
  
That could wait. Even around Oboro, Rinkah wouldn’t dig into sweets before a meal. “I thought you weren’t expecting me?”  
  
“I’m always prepared,” Oboro said, smiling brightly though the hand on her neck belied her confidence. Rinkah didn’t mind the hint of vulnerability. She was too busy marveling, yet again, at how Oboro could make anyone feel welcome—even, or maybe especially, her.


	50. Where There's Smoke (Rinkah/Oboro)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Shakespeare prompt table quote "Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs" - _Romeo and Juliet_
> 
> Also for Phrenotobe's birthday.

Rinkah didn’t know she relied on the sounds of home to sleep until she left. Without wolves to bolster it, the wind’s howl became a whimper against the fort. The soldiers were always clanking or plodding or both; every time she thought she’d settled down, the guards switched, and she became agitated all over again. She missed the crackling of fire and the chirp, rather than buzz, of insects.

Usually she kept too active to brood, but lying there brought back memories. When Rinkah was a child, her parents had gone on a hunting trip together to celebrate their union of ten years. She’d stayed up wondering why she couldn’t go with them and what she would do if they didn’t return. 

_Become the next Chieftain,_ her eight-year-old self had thought, and she’d occupied herself by sitting in her dad’s tent and barking orders at imaginary subordinates until a guard told her to be quiet.

After flipping into every position imaginable, Rinkah finally rose with a growl. She paced the hall, mentally daring any guard to interrogate her or order her back to her room. Being the only member of the fire tribe sometimes earned her suspicion, but they’d all conquered this fort together, and she had as much—or as little—right to be here as the Hoshidans.

The smooth stone beneath her feet made her wish for boots. As she was thinking of turning back for them, a whistle caught her attention. At first she thought it was yet another corruption of wind. Then she thought it was Princess Azura, as the sound brought to mind ominous watery depths. But at the middle of the aural whirlpool stood Oboro, broom in hand, sweeping a study as if she could see dirt in the moonlight.

Rinkah scrunched her nose. She should have guessed from their encounters after meals, but she didn’t imagine Oboro was _this_ much of a neat freak. “Oboro? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Oboro started. While Rinkah had seen her focus deeply on training and sewing, she seemed less aware of her surroundings than usual. “Um… Gee, I dunno. I got so into my chores.”

Rinkah snorted. “You were really ordered to sweep this old study?” Oboro turned away.

“Someone has to.”

Aware she had no weapon to grasp onto, Rinkah crossed her arms and leaned against a shelf. “Nobody has to do it _now_. Everyone but the night watch is asleep. How dirty is this place going to get before morning?”

Oboro didn’t answer. Though she stopped sweeping, hands fisted around the handle, Rinkah could tell it wasn’t because of her. Sweat ran down Oboro’s jaw despite the open window letting in the night air.

In Rinkah’s northern home, the days were shorter and colder than in most of Hoshido. Between that and the heat her god granted her, she had to scoff any time Hoshidans complained of cold. Still, the face Oboro made when she looked out the window scattered chills down Rinkah’s arms. Not that it was such a bad feeling, but she’d thought she’d seen Oboro’s angry face in the mess hall, and the way the tight angle of her brow drew in shadows now was…something else.

“Come on, Oboro,” Rinkah said, not sure how to ask about that. “Warriors need rest as much as food before a battle.”

For the second time, Oboro started. “So you’re going to fuss at me, too?”  
  
“What, I’m not first in line?”

“Lady Corrin’s been at me about this. I mean, not that I didn’t appreciate it, but…” 

“You do this so much that our commander has to intervene?” Corrin had stuck her nose in Rinkah’s business, too. Maybe it was a hobby. It still worried her, though she wouldn’t have admitted it.

Oboro sighed and propped the broom against a wall. “I might as well tell you, too. Uh, my parents were killed on a night like this. Bandits. _Nohrians_. So keeping busy’s good, you see?”

“Your parents?!”

“Yeah. They were tailors.” Oboro’s hands clenched open air, then found books to rearrange, though she wasn’t reading the titles. “Look, I’m not trying to have a moment or anything, but since I lectured you about neat eating and all, I didn’t want you to think I was obsessed with cleaning.”

Stone scratched Rinkah’s bare back while she tried to absorb this. She’d thought Oboro’s interest in sewing was just her being finicky. It seemed like her, to want to seamlessly mend and patch holes. The Oboro Rinkah saw now looked ready to rend open the night sky itself.

“Stupid Nohrian books,” Oboro muttered as she tried to cram one into a slim spot. Like an eight year old, waiting for papa and mama to come home.

Rinkah wanted to share this with her like Oboro had shared parts of herself, but it felt like a silly comparison to her anger, her grief, her…

Loneliness? Oboro always seemed to surround herself with people to smile at. Not here, standing alone at night in a strange room. 

Sighing again, Oboro gave up on her planned arrangement, and her empty hands shivered. Rinkah slid down the wall before plopping on the stone with her ankles crossed. As she called forth the heat from her veins to her skin, Oboro looked down at her, surprise disrupting her demonic scowl.

“You can’t have a proper fire in here—nothing to burn except those books, and we’d probably get chewed out for that,” Rinkah said, trying to sound casual. Around most people she acted as the dignified chieftain, but this wasn’t the time. “If you won’t rest, the least you can do is not fall ill from cold.”

She half-expected Oboro to kick her out. Instead, Oboro laughed. Rinkah’s cheeks heated; was her consideration being repaid with mockery?

“You’re going to be my little campfire, huh? Thanks, Rinkah.”

Rinkah wanted to protest that there was nothing _little_ about her fire, especially with her face hotter than the rest of her. Oboro’s thanks, as simple as it was, fixed her protest in her throat. For fear of making a further fool of herself, she said nothing, remaining Oboro’s silent guardian until the sun rose and Oboro had no reason to shiver.


	51. Star Kissed Lovers (Corrin/Scarlet)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Shakespeare prompt table quote "She's beautiful and therefore to be wooed" - _Henry VI_

Since the Ice Tribe Village, Corrin has wilted like an old flower. None of Scarlet’s jokes or stories revitalize the spark Corrin held when they first met. She’s only earned forced smiles, and the darkness in Nohr’s forests hides even those.  
  
Cheering up comrades is one thing, but comforting a love has never been Scarlet’s forte. She expresses herself with her hands, whether punching someone or pinching a mosaic tile between her fingertips. They aren’t pretty—the knuckles are bloody more often than not—but Corrin often cradles them and murmurs blessings against the calloused palms. Scarlet can’t return Corrin’s compliments so smoothly. She even tried to write letters, like some tongue-twisted lover, but it didn’t make the words better in the first place. _Tussle with me in the mud, girl_ isn’t any way to woo a princess.  
  
Still, Scarlet can only fall back on what she knows. When the army breaks for a rest, she takes Corrin behind a giant tree root and presses her against it, muffling Corrin’s weary sighs with her mouth. She can’t see Corrin’s expressions, but she can feel her arch against Scarlet, claw-like fingers exploring Scarlet’s cheeks and jaw.   
  
“I missed your face,” Corrin murmurs when they stop for breath.   
  
“How come I didn’t say that?” It’s a silly thing to sound put out about, all things considered; Corrin chuckles, and Scarlet returns to muffling her.   
  
A gasp leaks through. “My hair…”   
  
Apparently it’s gotten tangled in the root. Scarlet never has to deal with that; she cut her own as a child after it got pulled while sparring. She loves weaving ribbons in Corrin’s too much to suggest she cut hers, too. It’s a pity Scarlet can’t see it so mussed.   
  
While Corrin works it free, she fumbles with Corrin’s armor, wanting to give her more reasons to make noises besides mournful sighs or battlefield shouts. Her spear rests within reach. Enemies, even monsters, could surface any time, and Scarlet is Corrin’s armor now, albeit too short to cover her entirely.  
  
Triumphantly she pulls up Corrin’s shirt. The sight bemuses her. At first, she thinks Corrin has somehow created a mosaic on herself, but even Scarlet’s weapon doesn’t shine in so little light. Silver scales dot Corrin’s abdomen, twinkling like stars.   
  
“And you said you wished you had freckles like mine.”  
  
“They appeared after I started transforming more,” Corrin says. “I was worried they were some kind of rash, but Azura thinks it’s fine.”  
  
Scarlet whistles. “I’ll say it’s fine.”   
  
“You don’t think it’s strange? I mean, it’s one thing to turn into a monster in battle, but…”  
  
“You kidding me? You’re…” Scarlet grapples for words to describe how her love is literally glowing.  
  
Instead she lowers herself until she’s almost kneeling, letting her hands roam down Corrin’s stomach (and divine princess or not, Corrin leans against her touch as much or more than any girl Scarlet has known).  
  
“They aren’t usually this bright,” Corrin says, still sounding concerned beneath her breathlessness. “And there’s not even anything for them to reflect.”  
  
“Maybe it’s some survival ability? Your own tummy torch.” Scarlet tickles between the scales, and Corrin giggles, the second laugh Scarlet has heard from her in a while.  
  
“Scarlet, I mean it.”  
  
“Or maybe you’re just blushing.” The scales _are_ warm to the touch.  
  
“Well, I did bring a beautiful girl to her knees.”  
  
Scarlet groans. From this position, she can’t swallow Corrin’s pretty words.  
  
Rather than compete, she presses her lips to Corrin’s abdomen, finding the junctures in between scales and muscle and soft flesh. For all the time she’s spent in flight, crouched here in the muck is the first place she’s kissed the night sky.   
  
That’s a pretty turn of phrase for once, she thinks—but her mouth is too busy for speech, and she hopes Corrin gets the idea.


End file.
